


The Line of Durin

by imaginary_golux



Series: Coats and Customs 'verse [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 30,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The envoys from Erebor want something Belegost cannot give them, and Bilbo sets off to explain matters to King Frerin.  Of course, there's the small problem that King Frerin is rumored to be gold-mad...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Thorin Is Diplomatic

“Belegost welcomes the representatives of our brother kingdom Erebor,” Thorin says formally, and the dwarves before his throne bow in perfect unison.

Bilbo leans back in his throne and observes their visitors carefully as Thorin goes through the official motions. Nearly fifty dwarves have come from Erebor: ten as the official delegation from King Frerin, and forty who say they wish to emigrate to Belegost permanently. Bilbo is a little worried about that. No one except Thrain’s party has come from Erebor in the nearly twenty years since Belegost was re-founded; the only communications between the two kingdoms have been Thrain’s expedition and a single note, sent by raven from Belegost, bearing Thorin’s acceptance of Frerin’s terms: Thorin shall never again set foot in Erebor, and in return, Erebor shall make no claim on Belegost.

It is odd, then, that after more than fifteen years of complete silence, so many dwarves have decided to move from Erebor to Belegost. The emigration of so many people might signal a growing problem or unrest in Erebor. Additionally, Bilbo remembers that many of Thrain’s dwarves were not fond of hobbits or dwobbits. There are now more hobbits and dwobbits in Belegost than there are dwarves, though all of Belegost’s people still consider it a dwarven kingdom. What if these new immigrants dislike the dwobbits? The dwarves of Belegost are very protective of their half-dwarf children, and Bilbo does not like to think about the brawls which might ensue. And will they have enough food for all of these new mouths? The shipments from the Shire are always generous, but the population of Belegost does not usually increase by so many people all in a day.

The lead ambassador finishes the formal greetings from King Frerin, with all their flourishes and meaningless embellishments, and Bilbo turns his attention again to Thorin, who rises and nods regally at their guests. “It is late in the day,” Thorin observes. “Tonight there will be such a feast as you have never seen ere now; and tomorrow you may speak my brother’s words to myself and to my consort. Lords Dwalin and Balin will see you to your temporary quarters, my lords.” The ambassadors bow themselves out, with Balin and Dwalin hovering behind them like worried ducks with too many ducklings, and Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand, tugging him gently towards the private meeting room just behind the thrones.

“You are troubled, husband,” Thorin observes as the heavy door shuts behind them. Bilbo sags into the comfortable chair which he has long claimed for his own and scrubs a hand over his face.

“I’m worried about the immigrants more than the ambassadors, Thorin. What if they don’t like the dwobbits?”

Thorin sits on the ottoman and gathers Bilbo’s feet into his lap, rubbing them gently. “I will have Dis keep her eyes open – you know she won’t let anyone speak badly of the little ones.” He pauses, then sighs. “What worries _me_ is whether any of them are here to stage a coup.”

Bilbo sits up straight, yanking his feet out of Thorin’s lap. “ _What?_ ”

Thorin shrugs. “There’s always someone who thinks they can rule better. Those we brought with us – those who have stayed with us – are of my blood, or are so loyal to us that I have never feared for our safety. But there may well be those among the newcomers who either wish to take the throne for themselves, or wish to depose me and offer Belegost as a client kingdom to my brother.”

“He _swore_ he did not want Belegost!” Bilbo is furious and terrified in equal measure.

“So he did swear – nearly twenty years ago,” Thorin agrees sadly. “Much can change in twenty years, my love. If things have gone badly in Erebor – badly enough that many of its people wish to come to Belegost, perhaps? – then Frerin may be thinking that a young, strong, wealthy kingdom is exactly what is needed to shore up dwindling Erebor.” He pats Bilbo’s knee. “I have no intention of being assassinated, Bilbo, nor of letting anyone do harm to you, or to anyone else in our family. If there _are_ assassins among the new immigrants, it will not be the first time Dwalin has prevented my death. Erebor’s court was a veritable pit of vipers while Thror yet lived, after all.”

Bilbo sags in relief. “I will never be used to such thinking,” he says wearily. “Hobbits do not do such things. The worst that might happen is a bit of nasty gossip, or some stolen silverware. To kill another hobbit – such a thing is nearly unthinkable. None of the Thains has died by violence since before Bullroarer Took defeated the goblins and invented golf all in one blow!” He sighs. “If I live as long as Gandalf, I shall never understand dwarves, Thorin.”

“Well, I have yet to comprehend hobbits,” Thorin says reassuringly. “We are equal in our confusion, at least.” This makes Bilbo laugh, as it is meant to, and he is much less out of sorts by the time Balin and Dwalin return from escorting the ambassadors to their rooms.

“Did you learn anything?” Thorin asks his old friends and closest advisors.

Dwalin grimaces. “Nothing concrete,” he says slowly, “but the youngest two – the scribes, a pair of brothers named Ilin and Elin sons of Oren – asked very politely and very quietly for a private meeting with yourself and your consort, as soon as might be arranged. Private from the other ambassadors, that is: they said you might have as many guards as you liked there, and they would not mind. It’s only the other Ereboreans they’re worried about.”

“Now that _is_ troubling,” Thorin replies. “I mislike it greatly. Still, perhaps such a meeting will yield valuable information; set it up, please, Dwalin. For _after_ tomorrow’s official meeting with the ambassadors, that is.”

“As you wish, my king,” Dwalin agrees, and bows himself out.

Balin sits down in one of the other chairs, eying his king with some amusement. Only with such old and treasured friends would Thorin sit at his husband’s feet like this, but Balin knows well how much Thorin cares for his husband. “I, too, heard nothing terribly concrete, my king, but the few bits of chatter I did hear disturbed me strangely.”

“Oh?” Thorin looks less than amused at the idea that there is _more_ bad news waiting for him.

“The chief ambassador, Rian son of Berun, asked me several questions about Prince Kili which seemed odd – whether he was yet young and adventurous, willing to leave his family’s side. What Erebor would want with Kili I cannot imagine, and Rian did not say.”

Thorin frowns, and Bilbo shakes his head. “Asking questions about Thorin or Fili would make sense, given that they’re the King and his heir,” Bilbo says slowly, “but why ask about _Kili_? How odd.”

Thorin nods. “Tomorrow I suppose we shall discover their meaning. Tonight we must be polite and diplomatic and say nothing of consequence.” He stands and offers a hand to Bilbo, who takes it and is pulled gently to his feet. “At least I need not fret about the food,” Thorin adds, grinning. “No kingdom so full of hobbits need ever fear for the quality of their provender!”

Bilbo and Balin both laugh, and Thorin leads Bilbo out the door towards the impending feast.


	2. In Which Frerin Asks For The Impossible

“…and so,” the chief ambassador drones, “in order to better reassure the people of Erebor and ensure the continuance of the line of Durin in the chief stronghold of that line, King Frerin sends to his honored brother the humble request that the younger son of Dis daughter of Thrain, one Kili son of Vili, be sent as soon as is convenient to Erebor, there to marry Eren daughter of Gidin and take his place as heir apparent to the throne.”

Bilbo chokes quietly on his sip of water. Thorin’s jaw drops. Balin, behind the thrones and hidden in the shadows, drops his head into his hands and stifles a moan. The ambassadors look from Thorin to Bilbo in astonishment. Surely this is not _that_ unreasonable a request?

Thorin takes a deep breath and composes himself. “Honored ambassadors, I regret that my answer must displease you. Kili son of Dis is _already_ married, to Primrose Took of the Shire, and I will by no means order him to set aside the wife of his heart and mother of his sons in order to wed another.”

“ _His sons?_ ” chokes the ambassador. “But, but did you not say his wife was a _hobbit_?”

“I did,” says Thorin, and glowers. The ambassador bites back whatever he would have said – but Bilbo can hear it anyway. _The noble line of Durin tainted with the blood of hobbits?_ Bilbo spares a moment to hope the ambassadors have enough sense to keep their mouths shut around Dis: Dis dotes on all her grandsons, dwarf and dwobbit alike, and if any of these pompous fools insults Kili’s sons in front of her, she’s as like as not to challenge them to a duel. Which would be bloody and awkward, and Bilbo does not want to have to write the letter which begins, “Our apologies for the death of your honored ambassador…”

Finally the ambassador gets himself under control, and bows to Thorin. “Your Majesty, given this new information, I am afraid I must beg your indulgence while my colleagues and I confer…”

Thorin grants the request instantly, and the ambassadors head out in a flurry of whispered Khuzdul. To Bilbo’s mild amusement, the scribes are ordered to stay behind, and as soon as the door shuts behind the ambassadors, both scribes whirl and hurry towards the dais, bowing every other step. They look like birds bobbing for insects in the water, and Bilbo smothers a chuckle.

“Ilin and Elin, isn’t it?” Thorin inquires quietly when the scribes are at the foot of the dais. Both of them bow again, deeply.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” says the elder of the two, and glances at his brother as if for reassurance. “We beg your pardon, Majesty, and yours, Highness, but we couldn’t think who else to speak to.” He hesitates, and Thorin leans forward.

“What troubles dog you that you think I might solve? For Belegost is far from Erebor. You are welcome to stay, if that is your desire. Belegost can always use more trained scribes.”

Ilin shakes his head. “No, Majesty, begging your pardon but we’re dwarves of Erebor and there we’ll return. But, well, it’s like this. We were in Dale, not too long before we left Erebor, buying inks I think it was,” his brother nudges him, and he blushes at the tangent, “and we heard a song about the Prince Consort. It said he’d cured Your Majesty of madness, begging your pardon for speaking of it of course, and we, well, we were wondering…” He breaks off, blushing and staring at his feet. Elin sighs.

“We were wondering, Your Majesty and Your Highness, if the Prince Consort mightn’t see his way clear to coming to Erebor and curing _our_ king, for it’s common talk among the lesser folk that King Frerin is falling into gold-madness like King Thror before him, and we’ve no desire to see the kingdom fall to ruin.”

Bilbo’s jaw drops. “You want _me_ to come to Erebor and cure Frerin of _gold-madness_?” he squeaks. Ilin and Elin nod frantically. Bilbo glances helplessly at Thorin, who seems torn between umbrage and laughter.

Thankfully, Balin steps up from behind the thrones, recognizing that both of his monarchs are far too boggled by this turn of events to say anything useful. “His Majesty and His Highness will consider your request fully,” he informs the Ereborean scribes. “But while they do so, you had perhaps best get back to your delegation before you are missed.” Ilin and Elin agree instantly, and bustle out of the throne room within seconds. Balin turns to his rulers with a wide grin.

“Well, Your Highness, news of your accomplishments seems to have reached Dale, at any rate!”

“Oh, do stop laughing at me,” Bilbo grumps. “You know I can tell, even if you hide it behind your beard. Drat those song-writers anyhow; I had much rather forget about the whole bloody business. Tromping all over Middle-Earth with orcs and giant spiders and nasty creeping little creatures trying to kill me, and _volcanoes_ , and being snatched up by eagles – oh, bother adventures anyhow.”

Thorin muffles a chuckle under his hand, and reaches over to pat Bilbo on the knee. “You _did_ save all of Middle-Earth and restore my sanity, you might recall.”

“And I’m glad I did,” Bilbo returns, “but that doesn’t mean I’m terribly happy to be known as a curer of madness and assorted maladies across the length and breadth of Middle-Earth. It’s bad enough that Ori wrote that dratted _Saga_.”

Balin clears his throat. “As amusing as watching you spat may be, my lieges, there is the matter of the scribes’ request.”

Thorin puts his chin in his hand, elbow against the arm of his throne, and hums a little in the back of his throat. “It’s not a bad idea, actually,” he says after a long moment. Bilbo sputters. “Not sending Bilbo to cure Frerin – I know as well as you do that destroying the Ring is what cured my madness, and surely Frerin is not being possessed by some ancient evil! – but sending Bilbo to Erebor. We must do something diplomatic to soften our refusal to send Kili to Erebor, and sending the Prince Consort of Belegost – yes, and my sister too! – to make polite noises at Frerin would not go amiss.” He shrugs. “You could offer them half a share in the re-settling of Moria, actually, so long as they agreed to Fili as its Lord. You know Kili doesn’t want to be a king of anything anyhow; don’t think I’ve missed how happy he is to be beholden to nothing but his wife and sons, and so long as Fili and young Thrain are well, Kili is safe from thrones. We haven’t enough people to fully settle the mines, and I’m sure Frerin would be happy to know the Balrog is gone. It would give Fili something to do while he’s waiting for me to grow old and die, and give him some practice as a monarch. Might be a good idea, really.”

Balin nods thoughtfully. “Actually, that would solve many of the problems we have been anticipating in the re-settling of Moria. Yes, I think such an offer ought to please Frerin immensely.”

Bilbo sighs. “And I must go because I am Prince Consort and Thorin cannot. Bother and blast. Well, I shall have Dis with me, and I will bring Gimli as well. He will be glad to see Legolas when we go through the Greenwood, at the least.”

So it is decided.


	3. In Which Thorin Does Not Want Bilbo To Leave

“The last time you left, you came home with a giant spider-bite and a collection of _elves_ ,” Thorin gripes that night, Bilbo sprawled across his chest in their favorite sleeping position.

Bilbo chuckles and tucks his head more comfortably under Thorin’s chin. “Two elves is not a collection, Thorin.”

“It’s two more than I ever wanted to see in Belegost,” Thorin grumps, and is privately delighted by Bilbo’s peal of laughter.

“In any case,” Bilbo says once he has recovered his breath, “Prince Legolas assures Gimli that the spiders have been quite cleared out of the Greenwood. I will have Gimli and Kes and Bifur along as bodyguards, and whoever else Dwalin insists on sending, and of course Dis won’t let anything happen to me.”

“No,” Thorin agrees, “that she won’t. Sometimes I think she likes you better than she does me!”

Bilbo laughs again and wriggles a little to get comfortable. “Well, she is like the sister I wish I’d had, but I shall always like _you_ better, my husband.” He hums, carding one hand through the hair on Thorin’s chest, and adds, “I think I’ll bring Aragorn along, at least as far as Dale. It’d do him good to see a city of Men. I don’t know that he’s ever seen any Men except the Dunedain, and they’re a bit odd, you know.”

“A good thought,” Thorin agrees, tangling one hand in Bilbo’s hair and scratching gently to make Bilbo purr and go limp against him. “Bring Bofur, too, then; he’s good friends with Aragorn, and he can listen in on the miners and shopkeepers of Erebor for you. He’s got family in the mountain, cousins of some sort I think.”

“Mmmmm,” Bilbo agrees sleepily. “That’s enough people, though. Don’t want to outnumber the ambassadors.” He lifts his head and props it up with an elbow on Thorin’s chest. “ _Do_ you think your brother has gone gold-mad?”

Thorin sighs and rubs his faces, tugging on his own beard. “I wish I didn’t. But our line is prone to it – you know that as well as I do, though thank Mahal that Dis appears to be immune, and Fili and Kili with her. It’s very likely that Frerin is gold-mad, and, husband, you must be ready to leave Erebor swiftly if it comes to that. Gold-madness makes one do strange things. As much as I dislike the elves, I know that Legolas and his people will shield you, if only for Gimli’s sake. Speak to them when you pass through their lands, and ask for sanctuary if it becomes necessary.”

Bilbo nods solemnly, then grins a little. “What, you don’t think that I can cure him with a wave of my magical hands?”

Thorin snorts and reaches up to tweak the tips of Bilbo’s ears. “You certainly have magical hands, my dear husband, but I shall be most put out if you use them on Frerin!”

“Yavanna forbid,” Bilbo agrees. “I am yours and only yours, now and always, my husband.”

“Good,” Thorin grunts, and hauls him into a deep kiss. Bilbo goes willingly, sighing into the kiss and relaxing into Thorin’s arms, and Thorin tries to put all his love and devotion into the press of lips, because Bilbo is going away _again_ and it never ends well when Bilbo goes away. Sometimes Thorin thinks he would have been happier as a miner, or a blacksmith – someone without the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, whose spouse could have stayed at his side always and never been called away by diplomatic necessity. But Thorin is a king, and his husband is a hero, and they must do their duty.

In the morning, Thorin wakes his husband with gentle kisses, watching as Bilbo’s eyes flutter open and he blinks groggily at the morning light. “Up and at ‘em,” Thorin teases quietly, knowing that Bilbo is by no means a morning person. “The ambassadors await our decisions. And we should tell Fili about them, too!”

Bilbo flings an arm over his eyes and groans. “ _Bugger_ ,” he says, feelingly. Thorin chuckles deep in his throat.

“If you insist, my love,” he agrees. “We have enough time for that, if we rush breakfast a little.”

Bilbo moves his arm enough that he can peer up at his husband. “You are _entirely_ too cheerful for this hour of the morning,” he accuses. “If you want sex, you will have to do all of the work; I shall simply lie here and enjoy myself.”

“As my husband pleases,” Thorin murmurs, grinning, and leans down to kiss Bilbo thoroughly. Then, carefully, he pulls Bilbo’s arm away from his eyes and pins both of his arms gently to the pillow above his head. “But if you are just going to lie there, I shall insist that you hold quite still, my dear, so as not to distract me.”

Bilbo’s eyes go wide and dark. “As my husband pleases,” he replies, and tips his head back on the pillow to bare his long pale neck. Thorin bends his head to kiss and nip at the skin so temptingly displayed, and Bilbo shivers beneath him, hands grasping each other tightly.

“My beautiful husband,” he rumbles, and Bilbo closes his eyes and melts against the sheets, moaning as Thorin’s hands map his torso, tweak his nipples gently and stroke down over his stomach and on down his thighs, avoiding his aching need entirely. Thorin parts Bilbo’s legs gently and moves to kneel between them, pinning Bilbo’s hips down with broad hands and looking up the length of his husband’s body, small and compact and strong.

Thorin waits until Bilbo opens his eyes again and stares down at Thorin, and then he bends to breathe hotly over Bilbo’s erection. “Remember this,” he murmurs, eyes locked with his husband’s. “Remember this, in Erebor, and return to me.”

Bilbo nods, shivering beneath Thorin’s hands. “I will always return to you,” he promises softly. “Death itself could not keep me from you, my love.”

Thorin bends and takes Bilbo entirely into his mouth, relishing the high-pitched moan this gains him, and teases with lips and teeth and clever tongue until Bilbo is begging, broken incoherent words and moans spilling from his mouth like gems; and only then does Thorin pull one hand away and wet a finger in his mouth and slide it down between Bilbo’s legs and up again into tight warmth until he reaches that spot that makes Bilbo cry out and come, hard, down Thorin’s throat.

Bilbo is limp and panting as Thorin fumbles for the oil, slicks three fingers and prepares his husband quickly and thoroughly, but he manages to raise his legs and wrap them about Thorin’s waist as Thorin lunges over him. Thorin leans down to kiss his husband even as he thrusts in, swallows Bilbo’s startled wail, and pulls back to see the most beautiful thing in the world: Bilbo, eyes dark with lust and lips red with kisses, head back in ecstasy, chanting Thorin’s name in time with Thorin’s thrusts.

Thorin spills within his husband, not quite able to contain his triumphant roar, and sags over him for a long minute until Bilbo reaches up and bats at his shoulder weakly. “We shall miss breakfast altogether,” Bilbo complains mildly. “Not that this isn’t worth it, but hobbits aren’t _meant_ to miss meals.”

Thorin laughs and pulls away to clean them up. “I am the King of Belegost,” he says cheerfully. “If I want to take an extra half-hour over my breakfast, I doubt anyone will complain. And if they do I’ll set Dwalin on them anyhow.”

Bilbo’s laughter rings through the halls of his kingdom, and Belegost rejoices with her rulers.


	4. In Which Bilbo Is Disgruntled

Bilbo does not want to go to Erebor. It is more than his dislike of being Prince Consort, or his weariness of adventures: he has few fond memories of the Lonely Mountain. Yes, he met and married Thorin there, and Thorin is the best part of his life and the king of his heart, but he met Thrain there too, and cautious Frerin, and cruel Thror. He remembers, too, the way the dwarves of the court looked at him with barely-concealed contempt, and the way they whispered behind him in their secret tongue.

He tells none of this to Thorin, of course. Thorin is already on edge at the thought of Bilbo so far from him; it is not as though their separations have been happy times for Thorin, and Thorin’s memories of Erebor have many years more bitterness than Bilbo’s. It would be cruel beyond words for Bilbo to make this parting harder for his husband; but he must speak to someone. Thankfully, there is always Dis.

Dis is, if possible, even less enthused about the journey to Erebor than Bilbo is. While Thorin has good memories of the Lonely Mountain – memories of being heir to the throne, of being made much of as a prince and of strong friendships forged in adversity – Dis remembers things a little differently. Dis remembers being a bargaining chip and a reward; remembers being married off without ever being asked her preference. Dis remembers the snide comments behind her back and the way her little brother stopped speaking to her. Dis remembers court intrigue she never had a chance of winning and bowing dwarves who called her ‘princess’ and despised her.

True, she is returning to Erebor in triumph, the hero sister of a king whose kingdom may in time outstrip even the Lonely Mountain in its riches, and already outstrips all other dwarven kingdoms in its birthrate. True, she stands at the side of her best friend and brother-in-law, a hero whose steel is hidden beneath soft words and smiles but is no weaker for that. True, she is going to Erebor to face down her no-longer-brother and his whole damned court and tell them they may go hang, for all her, they will have neither of her sons nor their sons, that if Frerin cannot find a wife then the line of Thror is lost to Erebor forever (and be damned to him, anyhow)…

But that does not mean she is any happier to be going to Erebor. In a perverse way, she is actually looking forward to the planned stop in the _Greenwood_ more than she is their stay in Erebor. Yes, the Greenwood is full of elves, and by all accounts Thranduil is less than happy with the dwarves of Belegost just now, but it will be absolutely adorable to watch Gimli and his elven lad reunite. Dis is actually rather fond of Legolas, not least because he helped her kill Shelob, though it helps that he is also so utterly adoring of young Gimli, and also Dis is looking forward eagerly to the horrified looks on the faces of the Ereborean envoys. If they looked disapproving at the idea of her dwobbit grandsons, how much more will they hate the love affair between an elven prince and a full-blood dwarf?

Dis has never claimed to be good at forgiveness. She is a dwarf of Durin’s line. Grudges stay in her blood and bone, longer than death. She remembers how Thror’s gold-madness and cruelty tore her family apart, and she will die before she lets Frerin do the same again.

She tells as much to Bilbo when he brings his fears to her, and Bilbo is relieved and worried in equal measure: on the one hand, he knows he will have a strong protector who will not be swayed by anything or anyone, and on the other hand the chances of Dis precipitating a diplomatic crisis are a little higher than Bilbo would like.

Still, there is nothing to be done about it: someone must go to Erebor, and that someone must be Bilbo. He has Dis to stand beside him, and Gimli and Kes and Bifur (and Mazam) to guard him, and Bofur to wander about and see what the common folk of Erebor are thinking. That will have to suffice.

The envoys very nearly object to the news that Aragorn will be going with them as far as Dale, but Thorin employs his best stern glare and they wilt beneath the weight of his gaze. Aragorn, good lad that he is, is packed and ready to go days before they actually leave, eager to see an entire city full of Men. The envoys _do_ object to Bilbo’s stated intention to stay at least a week in the Greenwood, but Thorin growls and points out that this will give the envoys time to return to Erebor and prepare a proper reception for the Prince Consort of Belegost, and they subside into muffled grumbling.

(Gimli, off to one side where they can’t see him, does a brief and entirely undignified jig. Bifur, next to him, mutters something in Khuzdul about earplugs, which Gimli pretends not to hear.)

And then, much too soon for Bilbo, they are ready to leave.

*

Kes remembers enough about Erebor: cavernous halls, and being cold a lot, and Father being worried but trying to hide it. She was sixty when they left, but had no apprenticeship lined up, no hopes of joining the guards or the miners or the smiths. Eight children are a blessing to a dwarven family, but Father and Mother were not well off, and the apprenticeship fees for her older brothers had not been kind to the family finances.

Belegost had been a new chance – that was what Father always called it. And indeed it had been a very good decision for them, even if they’d had to leave Dolur behind because his apprenticeship was too good to give up. King Thorin had been more than kind to those who’d had the courage to approach him directly, and Father had gone from a fourth-level cook with no hopes of advancement to the head of the Royal Kitchens in one great step. To be sure, the Royal House of Belegost isn’t actually that big, and certainly they don’t stand on ceremony the way the royalty of Erebor did, but still. Father went from being constantly worried to being permanently cheerful in about ten days. It was wonderful.

And when Dwalin came back from the Battle of the Shire and began looking for new guard recruits to fill the ranks of the fallen, he saw Kes practicing in a back corner of the training hall, Kes with no formal training whatsoever, nothing but muscles and hope, and came tromping over to plant himself in front of her and declare, “Girl, you’d be wasted as a smith.”

Dwalin had trained her himself, running her ragged for three years before he decided she was good enough to join the common ranks; and then, when he saw that she still practiced late into the night, begging the older warriors for tips and hints and tricks to make her better, he took her under his wing again and worked her harder than ever, until finally, to the astonishment and delight of her entire family, he declared her good enough to be a bodyguard – good enough to stand behind the Prince Consort and protect him from all evils.

She knows she’s not as good as Bifur, who has more years of experience than she’s been alive; and she knows she’s not as utterly, terrifyingly loyal as Gimli, who followed Prince Bilbo across the world and into Mordor itself, but she’s fast and she’s smart and she’s loyal enough to die for her Prince, and she loves the Royal Family of Belegost for everything they have done for her family, directly or indirectly; so Kes braces herself for the coming trip to Erebor and swears that nothing and no one will harm _her_ Prince while she yet lives.


	5. In Which There Is Traveling And Insurrection

The first leg of the journey to Erebor is…strained is the best word for it, Bilbo thinks. The envoys sit at their own fire at night, backs pointedly to Bilbo and his little entourage, and speak to them as little as possible during the day. They do not even share provisions. Dis glares at them and mutters rude words under her breath, and Bilbo’s bodyguards never go more than a few paces from him. Aragorn sticks close to Bilbo and looks rather nervous about his first big adventure. Bofur and the two scribes hang back with the packhorses during the day and speak to each other softly, voices covered by the clop of hooves, and at night Bofur tells Bilbo what he’s learned. It’s almost never reassuring.

Ilin and Elin tell Bofur that Frerin has gotten less and less friendly with Dale – _Dale_ , of all places! That even the routine trades for fresh produce and meat have grown tense and unfriendly. Frerin has raised taxes, they say, three times in eighteen years, an unheard-of move; and taxes were already high when Thror died. This is part of why so many dwarves came to Belegost; and the scribes tell Bofur that there are many, many other Ereborean dwarves who want to leave the Lonely Mountain but do not want to live with hobbits.

On the one hand, Bilbo is rather offended by that; on the other, it means that there will be plenty of volunteers for the planned re-colonization of Moria, so hopefully Thorin will be happy. And it isn’t as though he’s never encountered the dwarven distaste for hobbits before – after all, that’s why most of those who followed Thrain left Belegost in the first place. Still, it’s a bit insulting, and also there is always the danger that someone will say something insulting about dwobbits near Dis and she will maim them and that would be unpleasant for everyone involved.

Thankfully, given the utterly uncommunicative grumpiness of the envoys, the trip over the Misty Mountains is swift and painless, with no unseasonable storms or unpleasant nighttime visitors. Bilbo can safely say he’ll never be fond of the Misty Mountains – too many horrid memories – but he can acknowledge their beauty and grandeur when they’re not actively trying to kill him. Still, it’s a relief to be on level ground again, a week’s march from the Greenwood and, sadly, closer to Erebor with every day.

*

Ori is the Chief Scribe of Belegost, married to the Chief Guard. He is touchingly devoted to Prince Bilbo and the Lady Dis, and the baby princes have him wound around their tiny fingers. Everyone knows Ori is loyal to King Thorin and his family.

Dori is the Chief of Protocol for Belegost, in charge of every feast and festival, seating and menus and costumes and all. He fusses over every detail to ensure that Belegost can never be found wanting in courtesy, spends hours closeted with Balin to go over every possible disaster. Everyone knows Dori is loyal to King Thorin and his family.

Nori, now…Nori is a mystery. Most of the citizens of Belegost aren’t even sure why Thorin allowed Nori to come along: surely a new city doesn’t need a petty thief as one of its founding members? Though it’s true that he fought alongside the warriors at the Battle of the Shire, and that of the few thefts which _have_ happened in Belegost, none of them have been traced back to Nori. Still, it doesn’t look good, having a thief so closely related to such prestigious members of the little court of Belegost.

Nori knows all of this. He encourages it, in fact: plants occasional rumors about his disreputable past, riles his elder brother into a spitting rage in public with risqué comments and hints about his thieving ways. He makes it clear that his loyalty is to the highest bidder and to his family, and nothing more.

Which is true, in its own way, except that his price has already been met, years ago now, and no one else in the world could match it: his brothers, the only family he has, the only people he really cares about, are both happy. They have high-ranking jobs, people look up at them, Ori has a dangerous husband who dotes on him, Dori has a wife who adores him and little happy children who he adores. Nori himself even has a wife, a bright clever hobbit lass who doesn’t mind his not-so-law-abiding public ways. And all of this wealth is a gift from Thorin and from Bilbo, and so Nori will be loyal to Thorin and to Bilbo, to Belegost and its king, until he dies.

Still, it’s useful to have a reputation for being dangerous and available to the highest bidder, for knowing every secret and hidden passage in the kingdom. It means he gets invited to little secret meetings like the one he’s in now, with his distinctive hair hidden under a deep hood and his memorable chatter muted to occasional grunts of agreement, little meetings where he can sit just quietly and memorize every scrap of information and identification that the other hooded members let drop.

There are only seven of them besides Nori, which makes his job both easier and harder, since such a small number means they don’t have mainstream support for their madness, but on the other hand they will be able to blend easily into the mass of people of Belegost and evade capture if Nori is not careful and clever. But Nori is _always_ careful and clever, so that’s less of a worry, really.

He’s pretty sure the leader of the little meeting is not from Belegost; nor are four of the others. That makes two Belegost dwarves who hate their king and his dwobbit grandsons enough to want to commit murder, but there’s a few bad apples in every batch, and Nori has no illusions left to him.

“We are decided, then,” the one Nori has mentally dubbed Head Fanatic declares. “Within the year, the traitorous ones will fall, and the true son of Durin’s line will take the throne, that his sons might carry on the pure blood of Durin himself!”

Sycophant Number One nods hard enough that his deep hood nearly falls off his head. Nori takes note of a black beard and an oddly-shaped silver bead before the other dwarf gets his headgear under control.

The rest of the conspirators nod and grunt, so Nori nods and grunts along with them, and fades back into the shadows as the conspirators escape into the corridors of Belegost. Once all of them are quite gone, Nori turns and makes his own way through the hidden passages and side halls which no one ever uses, and then through a door which only three people know about, into the bedroom of his younger brother and Dwalin Kingsguard.

They are asleep, of course, like all law-abiding people are this time of night, but Dwalin comes awake as soon as the secret door opens, rolling to place himself between Ori and any possible danger. There are many reasons that Dwalin Kingsguard has not been poisoned in years past, but the main one is how clearly, utterly, and unabashedly devoted he is to Nori’s little brother. Nori can forgive a lot for such devotion.

“It’s me,” he says, and Dwalin nods and reaches back to shake Ori awake. Ori blinks in the near-darkness and tucks himself under Dwalin’s arm for warmth as he sits up.

“Nori? What’s wrong?”

Nori sighs and sits down in the armchair they always leave ready for him beside his secret door. “Code Dragon, Dwalin.”

Dwalin swears, long and vituperatively. “Who? And why?”

“I didn’t get any names, but they’re going after the king, and Kili and his family. They want Fili on the throne. Durin fanatics – they think the dwobbits will prevent the return of the Deathless.”

Ori gulps and huddles closer to Dwalin. “Dwalin…isn’t Code Dragon _assassination_?”


	6. In Which Bilbo And Company Reach The Greenwood

The closer the little company gets to the Greenwood, the grumpier the envoys get, and the happier Gimli gets. Bilbo makes sure to keep Gimli near the back of their little party, and lets the envoys ride ahead, because this is an uncomfortable trip already and he does not want to know how the Ereboreans would react to Gimli’s elven beloved.

Worrying about Gimli is a bit of a relief, though, because it means Bilbo has that much less time to worry about their reception in Erebor. Bilbo thinks that he and Dis between them have made ‘not wanting to go to Erebor’ into an artform by this point, and their quiet griping at each other has become nearly ritual, a call-and-response of disgruntlement which is almost amusing by now. Aragorn rides between them and looks back and forth as though watching a fencing match.

When they reach the Greenwood, a small group of elves fades out of the trees in front of them. The leader bows to the envoys and then to Bilbo’s group. Bilbo bows back, keeping his face as straight as possible, and listens as the envoys explain – almost civilly – that they cannot spare the time to come to Thranduil’s court, and the elves’ leader promises them a guide through the Greenwood and that he will take their greetings to his father.

Then the envoys are gone, marching swiftly into the forest behind a blank-faced elven warrior, and the leader of the elves turns back to Bilbo’s group. Bilbo laughs and reaches behind him, pulling Gimli forward and shoving him at the elves. “Go on, lads,” he says cheerfully, “you two can go ahead; I’m sure we and your merry band will catch up eventually.”

Gimli flushes deep red, and a faint blush turns the cheeks of the elves’ leader pink, but they both beam. The other elves and the rest of Bilbo’s party wait while the elves’ leader ushers Gimli into the forest, and then all of them break out into snickers.

“I have not seen Prince Legolas so flustered and nervous in all my years at court,” says a dark-haired elf maiden. “I am Lariel, one of Prince Legolas’ friends; he asked that we escort you to his father if he was…indisposed.”

Bilbo grins at her. “I am Bilbo of Belegost, as I am sure you had surmised, and my companions are the Lady Dis, my ward Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen, my bodyguards Kes daughter of Bombur and Bifur son of Telchar, and my friend Bofur son of Frar. And of course Gimli son of Gloin, who I am sure will greet you properly at some point.”

Lariel giggles. “Indeed. If Prince Legolas ever lets him out of his rooms! Be welcome in the Greenwood, all of you; come, we will bring you to King Thranduil that you may make your introductions to him.”

“I thank you,” Bilbo says gravely, and his little company follows the elves into the woods. The dignity of the occasion is a little marred by the fact that none of them can help but muffle chuckles behind their hands now and again, but such is life.

*

For long moments as they walk beneath the trees, Gimli can think of nothing to say. Legolas, beside him, is equally silent, and they glance at each other and away again, far too conscious of the blushes staining their cheeks and the bird-broken silence of the forest around them. Finally Gimli screws up his courage – is he not Gimli son of Gloin, bodyguard to Prince Bilbo of Belegost? – and stops, turning to his companion.

“It is…good to see you again,” he says, and could kick himself for the bland words.

Legolas stops too, and his smile grows broader as he looks down at Gimli. “It is indeed good, my friend and more than friend.”

Gimli relaxes, just a little, and steps a little closer to the elf. “I have missed you so,” he says, “and now that I stand before you I can barely think to speak.”

Legolas raises a hand and brushes a bit of Gimli’s hair back from his face. “It is the same with me,” he says, “and I am not accustomed to being tongue-tied. I have been trained from birth to know the right words to say in any situation, but I find that now I can think of nothing but – I love you.”

Gimli raises his own hand to touch the silver-and-sapphire beads in Legolas’ hair, and smiles until it feels like his face will split. “And I you, my heart, _bahel_ , best of friends.”

Legolas ducks his head a little, making the beads clack together gently. “All of my friends admire these, you know. They cannot find anything so fine even in the dwarven stalls at the Dale market.”

“Of course not,” Gimli grins. “Dwarves do not sell their best work, my love. We only give it away to those we cherish.”

Legolas laughs. “I will tell them as much, so they will stop bothering the poor merchants with impossible demands!” He glances behind them and sighs. “Prince Bilbo and my people are catching up to us; I suppose we should either keep walking or wait for them so that I can be properly diplomatic.”

“Let them catch us when we are near your father’s hall,” Gimli decides. “Prince Bilbo will not begrudge us a few minutes more.”

Legolas nods and puts a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, leading him onward. Gimli glances around himself and laughs. “I am as lost as a dwarf may be, my love. This forest seems as trackless as bare stone to me.”

“Well,” Legolas replies, “I should be equally lost in your tunnels. I will be glad to guide you here, and should your King ever allow me into his kingdom, you may guide me there.”

Gimli nods solemnly. “Either in Belegost or in some fair land where we might find a home together, if you come below the ground with me I shall guide and guard you with my very life.”

Legolas pauses again, with a strange sharp intake of breath which makes Gimli pause and look up at him worriedly, but Legolas is smiling a small sweet smile that makes him even more beautiful than Gimli usually thinks he is. All of a moment he bends down to press his lips to Gimli’s, chaste and sweet, and then pulls back blushing.

Gimli grins, and tucks himself against his beloved’s side, and lets Legolas ramble about the forest and its trees until his blush fades, and thinks that he has never been so happy in his life.


	7. In Which Bilbo And Thranduil Are Diplomatic

Bilbo and his escort catch up to their errant companions just outside the great gates which mark Thranduil’s palace. Somewhat to everyone’s relief, both Gimli and Legolas are unruffled, save perhaps for the light blush both are still sporting, and the fact that Gimli is tucked up against Legolas with Legolas’ hand on his shoulder. Still, it could be so much worse, and at least the Ereboreans aren’t around to see anything. Legolas’ elves appear indulgently amused by his relationship – Gimli had told Bilbo as much, but it’s a relief to see it with his own eyes – and even if the elves of Thranduil’s court decide to be snippy about anything, Bilbo’s perfectly capable of dealing with ‘snippy.’ They’ve got nothing on Lobelia.

Legolas reluctantly pulls away from Gimli, who retreats to his usual spot behind Bilbo, and leads them all through the great gates and up to the cavernous palace. Somehow, Bilbo had not expected the Elvenking’s palace to actually be built _into_ a hill – seems rather dwarven, almost – but there are vast windows everywhere and the hallways are both wide and carved to look like forests. It’s an odd effect, being underground but still surrounded by trees, and Bilbo and the dwarves are all a little disconcerted by the time they finally reach the throne room.

Thranduil is seated regally at one end of the room, and there is no one else there except two elves who are clearly his bodyguards. Bilbo stifles a sigh and steps forward. Clearly, the Elvenking is not feeling terribly friendly.

“Father, may I present to you Prince Bilbo of Belegost and the Shire, the Lady Dis of Belegost, Lord Aragorn son of Arathorn, and their escort?” Legolas carefully does not name the other four dwarves, which is really just as well. Bilbo bows, and Dis and Aragorn beside him bow a little more deeply – Bilbo _is_ co-ruler of Belegost, and technically only just outranked by the Elvenking, while neither Dis nor Aragorn has a throne at the moment – and Thranduil nods fractionally.

“Be welcome in the Greenwood,” he says, though his voice is cold as ice and the traditional words are meaningless in his mouth. “We are glad to have the Ring-bearer and his companions in our halls. Our son will see to it that you have all you desire while you remain with us.”

Legolas bows gracefully, and Bilbo and Dis rather less so, and the audience, such as it is, is over. As the doors close behind them, Bilbo cocks an eyebrow at Legolas, who looks sheepish as he ushers them down the corridor to what turns out to be a very nice set of rooms, separate bedrooms for everyone and a communal dining room with a large dinner already set out for them. Legolas joins them, sitting next to Gimli to no one’s surprise, and explains as best he can over warm bread and venison and fresh greens.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid, that my father is so unhappy with you; between the moonshine and the fact that I am in love with Gimli, he’s not too fond of either hobbits _or_ dwarves at the moment. Not that he ever likes dwarves much; there was some history between him and Thror which I was never privy too, but he always looks sour whenever someone mentions Erebor.”

Bilbo sighs and shrugs. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be happier if King Thranduil was kindly inclined towards us, but at the end of the day we’re here to treat with Erebor, not the Greenwood, and there’s little enough the Shire or Belegost needs with the Greenwood save safe passage for our caravans.”

Legolas nods. “My father will not interfere with the caravans – save for forbidding hobbit ale! – for they are as profitable for us as they are for you, and also many of the people of the Greenwood would be very unhappy if we lost even that slim connection with the outside world. We do not go out of the Greenwood often, you see, except to Dale, and they are nearly as isolated as we are, with our forest on the one side and the mountain on another and the Long Lake below them. We are glad of the caravans.”

Bilbo smiles. “Then we will be quiet as mice while we are here, and move on to Erebor in a week or so. We’ll leave Aragorn with Lord Bard in Dale as we go through.” He nods across the table to the young man, who grins back excitedly.

Legolas hesitates, then glances at Gimli and takes a deep breath. “If you would permit, Prince Bilbo,” he begins formally, “I would accompany you as far as Dale. I am acquainted with Lord Bard; I do not think he would object to my visiting while you remain in Erebor.”

Bilbo grins, a broad happy smile which makes everyone else grin too. “I tell you what,” he says cheerfully, “I’ll make Gimli my official go-between to Dale.” He winks at Gimli, who flushes red. “You can stay overnight, oh, once a week or so.”

Lady Dis cackles gleefully and hugs Bilbo about his shoulders, and Gimli goes deeper red and puts his face in his hands, and Bifur says something in Khuzdul which makes Kes and Bofur snicker into their drinks, and Aragorn looks confused but happy because everyone else is happy. Legolas puts a hand on Gimli’s shoulder and smiles and smiles and smiles.

*

“They want to _what_?” Kili bellows, toppling his chair over backwards as he stands.

Beside him, Primrose bares her teeth in an expression which is nothing like a smile. “I’d like to see them _try_ ,” she hisses. “I’ll gut them before they lay one hand upon my boys.”

Even hardened Nori winces at the expression on her face. “If it helps at all, if they could see you now I’m sure they’d change their minds about hobbits being less worthy than dwarves,” he offers. Primrose just snarls. Nori makes a mental note: don’t threaten a hobbit’s children. Not that he would, but it’s good to know.

Thorin’s hands have closed convulsively on the edge of the stone table. Fili, beside him, looks like he’s about to be sick, and Mim has her face buried in Fili’s shoulder. Dwalin and Balin are both glowering, and their family resemblance is suddenly very apparent. Ori is surprisingly calm – but then, he has had time to get used to this, time since Nori broke into his rooms last night. And little Ori is a very level-headed dwarf. Nori thinks it’s all the reading he does.

“They don’t have a definite plan yet,” he says into the tense silence. “Last night was all blustering about the sacred line of Durin and it must be protected from defilement. Typical fanatic mutterings, but they did set a deadline: within the year.”

Thorin nods sharply. “See if you can convince them to try their plots before Bilbo and Dis return,” he orders. “They’d both be targets, I’m sure, and also probably young Gimli, even if he’s not directly in the line of Durin. I want them well out of the line of fire.”

Nori bows his head. “Yes, my king,” he agrees. “I can probably convince them to move more quickly, but it will take a little work.”

Thorin shrugs. The gesture is not nearly as relaxed as he means it to look, but no one comments on it. “I do not expect miracles, Nori. Already the information you have brought us is invaluable. I would simply prefer to present these _narakhalh_ * with as few targets as possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Narakhalh: violators. From the Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary, http://www.scribd.com/doc/98387422/Khuzdul-Dictionary-E-K-v01-JUN12.


	8. In Which Bilbo Reaches Erebor

Dale is a bustling metropolis, like the markets in the Shire on festival days, only everyone is much too tall. The little group of dwarves and hobbit, with a Man and an elf thrown in for good measure, gets some odd looks, but not many, and Legolas leads them through the crowds to the largest house in town, laughing at Gimli’s wide-eyed amazement and Aragorn’s blank astonishment.

King Bard has apparently had word that they are coming, since he greets them on the front steps of his house with a merry, “Prince Legolas! And who are your companions?”

Legolas introduces everyone, and King Bard gives them a long look and nods. “Be welcome in my house,” he declares, and ushers them in. Over a very good dinner, Bilbo inquires about leaving Aragorn and Legolas with Bard for the coming months, and Bard grins and agrees. “Any friend of Prince Legolas is surely a friend of mine,” he says cheerfully, and if Bilbo has suspicions that Bard would like to make friends with the future King of Gondor, well, there’s little enough harm in that.

They stay the night with Bard, in dwarf-sized beds, since Bard is quite a capable diplomat, and in the morning Bilbo thanks their host and takes a deep breath and leads his little company up the main road to the great gates of Erebor.

The guard waiting there bow to him, and one of them strikes a small gong beside the gates. Moments later, there are courtiers flooding out of the mountain, surrounding Bilbo’s little company and ushering them up and into the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo sees Bofur fade back into the crowd and away – good, he thinks – and then the courtiers are herding the rest of the company into the vast throne room which Bilbo remembers from his distressing wedding party.

The dwarf on the throne is golden-haired and young, but Bilbo recognizes the expression on his face: it is the same one Thror wore, the one and only time Bilbo met him, tight and cruel and grasping. Beside Bilbo, Dis draws in a sharp breath between her teeth, and mutters, “He looks just like Grandfather,” just loud enough for Bilbo to hear. It’s not reassuring. Behind them, Gimli and Kes and Bifur are blank-faced and straight-backed, Mazam with her ears flat back on Bifur’s shoulder. It’s a small comfort, but at this point Bilbo will take nearly anything.

As they approach the throne, slow march, trying to look as impressive and impassive as possible, the hair on the back of Bilbo’s neck begins to stand up. Something, somewhere nearby, is _horribly_ wrong. It feels like a cold wind down his spine, like black clouds over the sun, like…

Oh, _no_.

Like the Ring.

*

Somehow, Bilbo gets through the audience with Frerin. He makes the right noises of polite apology for not sending Kili, carefully glossing over the fact that Kili’s sons are dwobbits, and brings up – delicately and tentatively – the idea of a re-colonization of Moria. Frerin glowers at the fact that Kili is unavailable, but there is little he can say against it; dwarves, after all, do not divorce on a political whim. He’s mildly interested in Moria, though, or at least in the idea of the mithril mines, but the conversation takes a strange turn.

“As much as I should like a part-share in the mines of Moria,” Frerin says, leaning forward in his throne, “my honored father’s last followers did inform me that there was the small matter of a Balrog in the depths.”

It is six years since Gandalf slew the Balrog beneath the mountains of Moria. Bilbo blinks in surprise: is Frerin _that_ indifferent to the outside world? “The Balrog is dead, o King,” he says at last. “Gandalf the Wanderer, whom you call Tharkun, slew the demon years ago.”

“Fine news indeed,” Frerin grunts, and leans back in his throne. Above his head, the Arkenstone winks darkly, shining all-colored and no-colored around a core what seems to be black diamond. “We shall consider your offer in due course,” he continues. “Until then, be welcome in Erebor. We hope to see you at the feast tonight.”

“Of course,” Bilbo agrees, “we would be only too glad to attend,” and the audience is over. Bilbo does not run out of the throne room, but only because he’s holding on to his dignity with both hands, and when they finally reach the rooms they’ve been assigned, he sinks into the nearest chair and buries his head in his hands with a groan.

“Bilbo?” Dis kneels beside him, one hand on his knee. “I didn’t think it went _that_ badly. I mean, yes, he’s snippier than that dratted Elvenking, but at least he listened to us…”

Bilbo raises his head, and Dis rocks back on her heels at the despair in his eyes. “There’s something evil here,” he says, “something powerful. The whole time we were speaking to Frerin, I could feel it, like a cold wind in my mind. It felt like the _Ring_ , Dis. Will I never be free of it?”

Gimli and Kes and Bifur exchange glances from their posts behind Bilbo, worried and determined in equal measure. They’ll stand behind Bilbo no matter what, but Gimli especially would prefer not to have to deal with another evil artifact. It wasn’t much fun the first time around, even if he did get a beloved and a good reputation out of it.

Dis frowns majestically; she never looks more like her eldest brother than when she’s angry. “I could not feel it,” she says slowly, “but then I never bore the Ring. Regardless, I believe you. After all, if the Ring drove Thorin mad enough to turn against even you – what effect might this new evil have upon my other brother?”

Bilbo’s eyes are bleak as he stares down at her. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he whispers. After that, really, what more is there to say?

*

Kes is not sure she’s enjoying her first day back in Erebor. The courtiers are loud and talk a lot, but they don’t say much, and the look on Frerin’s face was actually a little terrifying. It’s a pity, since he’d be a rather good-looking dwarf if he was smiling, but instead he looks…nasty. Cruel and cunning and heartless.

Prince Bilbo’s revelation that something is rotten in the heart of the kingdom is the icing on the cake at that point, as far as Kes is concerned. Yes, Erebor may be a great and mighty kingdom, the seat of Durin’s line and the proud home of more dwarves than live anywhere else, but Kes is not impressed. Their king has nothing on brave, fair-minded Thorin, or on clever, kind Bilbo, or even on stone-hard, steel-sharp Lady Dis, and Kes will count the days until she can leave again.


	9. In Which Kes Is Confused

Frerin has apparently decided to think over Bilbo’s offer privately for a few days, because no summons comes down the next morning or the morning after. The third day, Bilbo shakes his head and shoos Kes out the door, saying, “You take a day off; Bifur can go tomorrow, and then Gimli can go down to Dale the day after. Go have fun!”

Kes isn’t sure how much fun anyone can have in Erebor. She could look up her older brother, yes, she should probably do that, but she hasn’t seen him in almost twenty years now and didn’t see him often before that, his apprenticeship taking up all his time even then. She’s not sure she wants to practice with the Ereborean guards, not if she might have to fight against them some day in defense of her prince. That leaves wandering aimlessly, so Kes does, turning up this hall and down that one at random, heading away from crowds or noisy areas, deep into the mountain where it’s cool and quiet.

She finds a set of corridors where every inch of the wall is carved into scenes from the history of the Longbeard dwarves, from Durin the Deathless on, inlaid with gold and mithril and precious gems for accents, and follows it down to the very beginning so she can read it the way it ought to be read. She’s four kings past Durin when someone comes around the corner and stops dead. She looks up, a little irritated at the interruption, and gapes.

King Frerin tugs on a braid sheepishly and smiles at her. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he offers. “No one’s down here, usually.”

“Ah,” says Kes, and then gets her brain under control and bows deeply. “Your Majesty. I can go.” She takes a step away from the wall, and Frerin raises a hand to stop her.

“Please don’t,” he says cheerfully. “Few enough people remember this is here, and I’ve always thought it was one of the most beautiful places in the kingdom. After the treasure hall, of course.” He grins. “I’m glad to see someone appreciating it.”

“It is very beautiful,” Kes agrees. “It must have been the life’s work of some great artisan.”

“Hurungor the Mad, I believe,” Frerin says, leaning in to peer at a particularly intricate bit of someone’s carven coat. “So called because he spent his life in these corridors, and apparently refused to let anyone else in until he was done. Even the king at the time couldn’t come down here without being threatened.” Frerin shrugs. “Probably worth it, though; he might have been mad, but he could carve.”

Kes finds herself laughing. “There are worse madnesses than those which result in such beauty,” she agrees easily, and finds herself pointing out a really very well done axe-blade with mithril inlay. Frerin admires it eagerly, and moves down the wall to show her some of his favorite places: the miners opening a new hallway, its depths somehow captured in flat stone; the war against the Ironfists, their massed hosts blank-faced and terrifying; the first war against Sauron, the dwarves short but broader than their elven and human allies.

An hour later Frerin looks up and shakes himself, smiling apologetically at her. “I’ve got to get back to the throne room,” he tells her. “Thank you for indulging me; I haven’t had such a pleasant conversation in ages.” He nods cheerfully to her and is gone.

Kes leans against an uncarved section of wall and stares after him for a long time, before finally shaking herself and heading back for Prince Bilbo’s quarters. If anyone will know if King Frerin has a secret, friendly twin, it’ll be Lady Dis.

*

Nori is beginning to be frustrated with the conspirators. There have been four midnight meetings now. How utterly cliché. Everyone knows that for a properly secret meeting, you get together in the back room of a friendly bar. There are three in Belegost which he _could_ recommend to the conspirators…if he felt like helping them at all, which, of course, he doesn’t. So instead of a discreet bar, they keep meeting in dark corners of the mines at midnight to stand around in deep hoods and listen to the Head Fanatic’s…pitiful excuses for planning an assassination attempt. So far, Head Fanatic has ranted for several hours on the sacred blood of Durin and the blasphemy of tainting it with the blood of other races, and his sycophants have nodded and occasionally done a little ranting of their own.

Nori kind of wishes he could just stick them all in a room with Primrose. He is not a fool – he listened to the stories the Questers brought back, he knows what Primrose Axe-Maid is capable of when her loved ones are threatened. And if any of the conspirators survived the experience, Nori is willing to bet they’d stop waffling on about hobbits being less worthy than dwarves. Not that berserker rage _ought_ to be a worthiness qualification, but if people are _going_ to be idiots, Nori is only too glad to help.

It’s not that Nori’s not getting anything useful out of these meetings. He is. He’s pretty sure he can identify three of the conspirators – both of the Belegost citizens and the Head Fanatic, who has a very recognizable voice especially when Nori’s had to listen to it for seven Mahal-help-him hours. The other four are still eluding him, though he’s keeping his eyes open for the bead he saw on Sycophant Number One’s beard, but he’s beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be easier just to tell Dwalin ahead of time about one of these meetings and have the guard sweep in and grab every one of these stone-headed unprintable idiots.

But no. Because under the incoherent ranting and the frankly stupid planning, there’s the distinct undertone that these people expect their plans to _work_. And that means that there is a security leak somewhere: a guard who can be bribed, a cook who can be convinced to look the other way for a few moments, _something_ which these people think they can use to get close enough to kill the royal family. Nori’s a patient dwarf, used to long cons and staying silent, and he will wait as long as it takes for the conspirators to tell him how, exactly, they plan on getting into the royal apartments.

And _then_ he and Dwalin will descend upon them like the wrath of Mahal, and Nori will take very great pleasure in shaving off the beards of every one of these traitorous worms before they are beheaded. He will send the beards home to their families, and he will make it very, very clear to anyone who cares to pay attention that attacking the royal family of Belegost – that attacking the _dwobbits_ of Belegost – is a good way to lose your honor, your beard, and your life.

Nori has never claimed to be a good person, but he knows what family is worth, and anyone who attacks his family, his people, his _kingdom_ will live only just long enough to regret it.


	10. Interlude In Dale

Gimli takes great care not to grin madly as he makes his way out of the great gates of Erebor and down into the bustle of Dale. He is an official liaison between Prince Bilbo of Belegost and his ward, Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen, someday King of Gondor, and the Prince of the Greenwood. He is not a lovesick dwarf off to visit his beloved. Nope, nothing like that going on, nothing to see here, move along.

…This would be easier if Lady Dis and Prince Bilbo hadn’t sent him off with broad leers and frankly terrifying winks, and Bifur had stopped making filthy jokes in Khuzdul. Kes sometimes seems to be the only sane one in their little group – even _Bofur_ makes comments when he comes up to report – and she’s busy being utterly freaked out by her encounter with Frerin in the History Halls, where by her account he was charming, friendly, and – most importantly – not even a little bit insane.

Legolas greets him at the door of King Bard’s house, a broad smile on his face. “Gimli,” is all he says, but then they are in public – it is all Gimli can do to nod back and enter the house without embarrassing himself.

“King Bard and Aragorn are out exploring the town,” Legolas says as the door closes behind them. “Aragorn is absolutely fascinated by Dale.”

Gimli shrugs. “I don’t think he’s ever seen so many Men in one place before,” he offers. “Elves and dwarves and hobbits do things differently.”

“So we do,” Legolas agrees. “I trust you will not object to having lunch with only me for company?”

Gimli laughs. “ _Mizimel_ , I should not object to spending the rest of my life with only you for company.”

Legolas blushes a little. “I thank you,” he says, and leads Gimli to a small dining room already set for them. As they sit, he adds, “What does ‘mizimel’ mean?” He only mispronounces it a little; clearly he has a good ear.

Gimli blushes deeply. “Finest jewel,” he mutters.

Legolas beams. “I thank you,” he says again. “I have been reading the dictionary you sent me, but reading a word and hearing it…and I have not memorized every word as yet. I do recall finding your name, though.”

Gimli grins sheepishly. “Most dwarven names mean something,” he says. “We’re not like hobbits; we choose names which are…hopeful? A hope for the child. Gimli means star, yes, but it’s more than that – the dictionary doesn’t always get the nuances – it’s, a, a light in the dark places. One that shows the way.”

Legolas nods solemnly. “A great hope for a child, indeed. And a good name for you, my friend, for you were a light for me in Mordor.” Gimli ducks his head for a moment, grinning into his cup.

“Do elven names have meanings?”

“They do. My name means ‘Greenleaf.’ My father’s name means ‘vigorous spring.’ Our names tend to be nature-themed, as the hobbits name their daughters for flowers.” Legolas pauses and looks down at the remains of their lunch. “I…brought a Sindarin dictionary with me, and the Khuzdul one you sent me. If it would please you, we could go and learn a bit together.”

“It would please me greatly,” Gimli agrees.

*

Thorin looks at the heap of papers on his desk and sighs. He is a good king, he knows he is, but Bilbo is much better at the…well, the boring bits. Sorting the endless paperwork and small talk and such. Thorin is perfectly good at the grand proclamations and the dealing with small problems among his people and the deciding where the next tunnel should go. He’s fine with leading his people on grand journeys and into battles. He just really, really doesn’t like paperwork.

He knows, in the back of his mind, that the paperwork is mostly an excuse to be grumpy. The real reason he’s acting like a bear with a sore tooth is twofold: first, Bilbo is not in Belegost, not at Thorin’s side and in Thorin’s bed, not there with his sensible suggestions and endless patience, and Thorin misses him like he would his own right hand.

And secondly, Nori has _still_ not managed to figure out how the conspirators plan to get into the royal apartments. Thorin would sleep better if he didn’t worry that he might wake to unexpected armed visitors. Not that Dwalin would let anything happen to him – he’s taken to sleeping across the threshold of Thorin’s rooms, much to Ori’s dismay – but still, it is one thing to know that you are a king and the position comes with certain dangers, and another to know that some of your own people are plotting to kill you and your nephew and grand-nephews.

If Thorin was a less patient dwarf, he would have ordered Dwalin and Nori to round up the conspirators and have them killed already, but he understands the necessity of finding their route into the royal apartments. After all, if one group of assassins can find a way in, a second can, and the second group might be a little more competent than these fools.

Unfortunately for everyone around him, the combination of Bilbo being gone and the conspirators popping up means that Thorin is short-tempered and prone to growling at people. Thankfully, most of his people have assumed that this is solely because Bilbo is away, and have taken to bringing him flowers or food or, sometimes, stories of Bilbo’s kindness in order to soothe him. Sometimes that even works.

The worst bit, Thorin thinks, is that on the one hand he wants his husband back, wants him at Thorin’s side and in Thorin’s bed, wants his steady counsel and his constant good humor. On the other hand, he does not want Bilbo anywhere near these _narakhalh_ , lest they take it into their fool heads to try to kill him. Thorin knows that pretty much everyone in Belegost – less the conspirators, of course – would cheerfully die to protect Bilbo, their hero many times over and their well-loved prince, but that doesn’t mean Thorin wants him in danger.

Thorin has sent him into danger, into rumors of gold-madness and his brother’s uncertain kindness. If Bilbo is injured in Erebor, Thorin may never forgive himself.

If Bilbo is injured in _Belegost_ , Thorin might simply go mad.


	11. In Which Bilbo Gets A Fright

Bilbo’s second meeting with Frerin goes about as well as the first one.

“But of course,” Frerin drawls, voice as cool as midwinter, “you will agree that Moria must be an entirely dwarven kingdom. It is our oldest stronghold, after all.”

Bilbo nods solemnly. “I and the hobbits of Belegost have no desire for the halls of Moria,” he replies. “We are more than content to agree that Moria shall be for the dwarves, as it has been in ages past. Yet there are dwarves besides those of Erebor, and I cannot and will not agree to allow Erebor to claim all of Moria for your own.”

Frerin scowls darkly. “Yet we are the older kingdom, and I am of the true line of Durin himself, who held Moria before the forces of darkness overthrew it.”

Bilbo holds on to his temper. “I dispute none of that; yet Fili son of Dis is also of the blood of Durin, and holds as strong a claim to Moria as you do – more, given that it was a force from Belegost which discovered that the mines were safe again for dwarven habitation.” He takes a deep breath. “And, you will forgive me, but to rule two such vast kingdoms would be no easy feat. Fili will be Lord of Moria alone.”

Frerin grumbles into his beard, and his eyes and the great Arkenstone above him gleam in worrisome unison. “Yet we shall be sending more than half the dwarves; we should gain more than half the riches.”

“O King, your kingdom is already ancient and wealthy. Thorin’s kingdom is smaller, and though we have hope for the mines, we have not the riches you already command. It would be petty of you to desire to cheat your brother of his fair share of the spoils of Moria – is there not such wealth in Moria that a thousand dwarven kings might share in it and each be none the poorer?” Bilbo shakes his head. “We of Belegost will supply the food, and the Lord, and such trained miners and craftsmen as we can spare who wish to go to Moria, but we insist upon a half-share in the profits. It is only our good will towards your kingdom which has brought me to offer you the other half.”

Frerin does not like that at all, but Bilbo does not sway from his firm stance, though Frerin grumbles and haggles like a fishwife at market.

It’s an uncomfortable meeting, standing in the great throne room before Frerin, with the hair on the back of Bilbo’s neck standing up from the horrid sensation of something near the throne, and a little voice in the back of his mind wondering how this Frerin, this cold cruel monarch who seems to care for nothing but gold, can also be the same dwarf who spoke so kindly to Kes only days before. Bilbo has left his bodyguards behind in a show of courtesy, so there is no one but Dis beside him, and Dis is working hard at keeping her formidable temper under control, so she’s not much use for the subtle diplomatic back-and-forth.

Still, the meeting ends without anyone shouting or crying or threatening vengeance, even if nothing is decided, so Bilbo decides he’ll take it as a win, or as much of one as he’s likely to get, and at Frerin’s cool dismissal he turns to lead the way out of the hall, Dis at his right shoulder as she always is.

They walk the gauntlet of courtiers on their way out, somber dwarves with blank faces behind their beards, and it is only because all of the other courtiers are concentrating so hard on keeping their faces blank and impassive that Bilbo sees the sudden flash of violent hatred on the face of the last courtier in time to flinch away from the unexpected, utterly terrifying knife-thrust.

The dwarf is on his left, so he flinches into Dis, who catches him, and for a single moment he thinks that she will hold him up long enough that the assassin will succeed, but then she _flings_ him behind her and roars, a sound of such pure fury that the assassin flinches back in his turn. She is on him before he even has a chance to flee, one strong hand grabbing the assassin’s wrist and twisting ruthlessly until a horrid snap and a high sound of pain announce the breaking of a bone, the other hand tangling in the assassin’s beard and yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart.

“You _dare_?” Dis bellows. Behind her, Bilbo scrambles to his feet and draws his dagger, settling into the guard position Thorin has so painstakingly drilled him in and turning to survey the rest of the room: Dis has the attacker under control, so he must guard her back. He dares not glance over his shoulder to see what is going on, but by the sounds of it, Dis is shaking the attacker by beard and broken wrist, bellowing in boundless fury. The courtiers are backing away from the altercation, some forming a defensive line between Frerin and the rest of the room, the others obviously baffled by the commotion.

“You _dare_?” Dis cries again, and the assassin makes a high, terrible sound of pain. “I will have your _beard_ ,” Dis snarls, and Bilbo sees all the courtiers wince. “I will have your beard and your honor and your _life_ , you scum! That is my _prince_ you tried to kill, my sworn liege and my brother’s love, and I will see you in the Hall of Honor and spill your blood upon its sand.”

Bilbo’s not quite sure what that means, but the white faces of the courtiers in front of him and the guards approaching unarmed and open-handed do seem to suggest that the would-be assassin was operating on his own, with no orders from Frerin. The lead guard comes near and stops, and speaks in Khuzdul. Bilbo carefully keeps his face blank, as though he does not understand the words: he and Dis and Thorin are all agreed that it is doubtless better if no one in Erebor knows he can speak the secret language of the dwarves.

[My lady,] the guard says, [We hear your challenge, and it is true. This one will face you in the Hall of Honor. I stake my beard upon his presence.]

Bilbo hears Dis shove the assassin away from her; he lands heavily, with another sound of pain, and then Dis’ hand lands on Bilbo’s shoulder, gently. “It’s alright,” she says to him, pretending he has not understood the guard, and then, in Khuzdul, [I will see him in the Hall of Honor this evening when the first star rises, and only one of us shall leave the sands.] Then she pulls Bilbo from the room.

Bilbo waits until they’re in his quarters and he has been ensconced in his chair with a cup of tea and fussed over by all three of his guards to say, “Dis, what is the Hall of Honor and why are we going there at sundown?”

Bifur grunts approvingly, but Kes and Gimli both look as confused as Bilbo feels. Dis shrugs and sits down in her own chair. “We don’t have one in Belegost yet because we haven’t needed one, but the Hall of Honor is where duels to the death are held.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Bilbo says faintly.

“He tried to kill you,” Dis says flatly. “I will take his beard and then I will take his head from his shoulders. And you will not go anywhere without your bodyguards from now on, courtesy or no courtesy. That was far closer than I like to think, and I will not go home to my brother and tell him I let his husband die because of _courtesy_.”

Bilbo sighs. “I’m not even going to bother to argue,” he tells her. “I’ll keep two of them with me at all times, except when I’m sleeping – and the only way into my room is through yours _and_ theirs.” He takes a long sip of tea, then puts it down and drops his head into his hands. “I just don’t understand _why_ ,” he says to his knees. “I’ve never done anything to Erebor.”

Dis levers herself out of her chair and comes over to pat him on the shoulder. “Dwarves live long,” she says at last, “and we do not like change. You are the embodiment of change, Bilbo Baggins of Belegost and the Shire. Because of you, or through your presence, Thorin is King in Belegost and not a disgraced prince in Erebor; dwarves marry hobbits and have children of mixed blood; a great evil is gone from the world, and Moria is again open to its first inhabitants. There is even a dwarf in love with an elf, and that the world has never seen before and perhaps will never see again. I do not say these are bad changes, my friend; rather the contrary. But they are changes, and we are not good with change. Dwarves are born of the stone, and the stone does not bend, it breaks.”

Bilbo nods and leans into her hand. “I do not ask to be the harbinger of change,” he says softly.

“No more do you,” Dis agrees. “You act according to your nature – strong and kind and stubborner than a mule. I would not have you otherwise. You are a good friend and a good liege-lord and a good husband to my stubborn brother. But the fact remains that the world changes around you, Bilbo Baggins, and that is terrifying to many.” She shrugs. “Mind, I may understand what brought that fool to try to kill you, but that is not going to stop me leaving him shorn and bloodless on the sand. I am a dwarf, too, after all.”


	12. In Which Dis Fights A Duel

Bilbo is given the seat of honor nearest Frerin’s box to observe the duel. His bodyguards stand behind him, bristling with weapons and giving unfriendly looks to anyone who gets too close or looks sideways at him. Bilbo would ask them to stop, but they’re under direct orders from Dis, and he’s not going to countermand her, not here and now, not when she’s in this sort of mood.

There are many more dwarves here to watch the duel than Bilbo really expected. Many of them are courtiers, but there are also large numbers of dwarves in the clothes of miners and smiths. Bilbo sees Bofur sitting among a crowd of soot-stained dwarves; Bofur looks as cheerful as ever, and his silly hat is firmly planted on his head. Bilbo glances away; he certainly doesn’t want to draw attention to Bofur if he doesn’t have to.

There is a window high along one wall, and Bilbo can see the colors of the sunset through it, and then the lowering darkness of dusk. Then there is a sudden spark of light, one bright star shining through the window, and a broad dwarf in ceremonial armor at one end of the sand-floored ring strikes the gong behind him. As the echoes roll through the room, the crowd goes quiet. Dis steps out into the ring from a hidden door; across the ring from her, the guards usher the would-be assassin onto the sand. His wrist has been splinted, Bilbo sees; not that that will do him much good against an angry Dis.

The dwarf in ceremonial armor strikes the gong again, and cries out in Khuzdul. Bilbo keeps his face blank and a bit curious, watching Dis intently.

[Lady Dis daughter of Thrain son of Thror has given challenge against Lord Nar son of Eban son of Dvergin in the matter of his attack upon Prince Consort Bilbo Baggins of Belegost and the Shire. The challenge is to the death.]

Dis unlimbers her axe and grins. Bilbo knows that grin – there is nothing of mirth in it, only battle-fever and fury. He stifles a sigh: this is going to be bloody and awful, and he cannot look away lest it be taken as disapproval of Dis, or an insult to the honor of Erebor. Joy.

The duel, such as it is, is very short. Nar has a broken wrist, and is clearly terrified of Dis – showing some good sense at the very last – and Dis doesn’t even bother to use the axe-blade. She feints left, right, and left again and then hits him very hard over the head with the hilt of the axe, and he goes down like a felled ox. With swift, crisp movements Dis leans down, gathers up his beard, and shears it off with a single blow of her axe. There is a sudden intake of breath from the crowd, a hiss of horror and awe.

Dis does not even wait for Nar to awaken before she beheads him. Bilbo is distantly glad for the mercy: better to die cleanly and unknowingly than to see your death approaching. But he does not have much energy to be glad; too much of his concentration is taken up with keeping his face utterly impassive while all he wants to do is go find a quiet place to throw up. Yes, Nar tried to murder him, but Bilbo has never been fond of killing, and this unequal battle, necessary as it might have been, has sickened him to his core.

He makes it through the banquet which follows on sheer determination, and for the first time in many years he must choke down his food, for he has no appetite but dares not appear weak before his hosts. When the banquet is over he excuses himself, glad now that he has rarely joined the revelry and will not be expected to tonight, and retreats to his rooms. There, alone at last in the locked bedroom which is his sanctuary, he weeps, quietly, for a stupid waste of life, and wishes with all his heart that he was home.

*

Nori has spent the last four days going through the records on every single one of the guards in Belegost. Ori and his acolytes being conscientious sorts, there are plenty of records: age and parentage, notable deeds, salary and known debts and talents and weaknesses. It has been an unutterably boring few days, and has had no results anyhow: Dwalin, sensible loyal fellow, has not allowed any dwarves who are not both competent and demonstrably loyal to remain among the ranks of Thorin’s guards.

Which, of course, means that Nori has _no idea_ which of them might be in league with, or bribable by, or otherwise influenced by the conspirators. The Head Fanatic has been frustratingly closemouthed on the subject of how, precisely, he is going to get close enough to the royal family to kill them. It’s just about the only thing he _hasn’t_ talked about yet, and Nori is inches away from grabbing the Head Fanatic by his hooded cloak, shaking him vigorously, and yelling, “Tell me! Tell me!”

It wouldn’t do any good and would do rather a lot of harm, but for all his patience Nori is not actually fond of this sort of waiting. It doesn’t help that Dwalin gives him dirty looks every time he sees him, and that Ori has apparently started reading up on torture techniques – Nori knows his little brother reads anything and everything, but there are some things Ori should never encounter, damn it! Though Nori’s mostly sure Ori is just doing it to irritate him, and possibly to worry Dwalin. Which, if true, on the one hand Nori is very proud of his little brother’s skill in psychological warfare. On the other hand, Nori does not care for being the target!

His only real consolation is that the Head Fanatic seems far more interested in continuing to rant to his sycophants about the blasphemy of dwobbits with the blood of Durin than in actually _doing_ anything about it. Oh, his threats are many and varied and thoroughly bloodthirsty, and Nori records every one of them so that the Head Fanatic’s madness will rebound right onto his never-sufficiently-damned head where it belongs. Nori is losing patience with these fellows, and as both of his brothers will tell you, a bored and impatient Nori is bad news for anyone around him.

Well, the other consolation is that, while the conspirators probably _have_ found someone who can let them in to the Royal Apartments, the chances of that person being alone on duty on some dark night are, frankly, nil. Dwalin has every post manned with two guards at a time, and rotates the pairings so that no two dwarves are together often enough, or predictably enough, to make planning ahead for a certain pair of guards feasible. The rotation isn’t even a new thing – Dwalin has _always_ been paranoid and overprotective of his king, and of all the line of Durin…

Nori drops his head to the desk and bangs it against the wood a few times, swearing in as many languages as he knows at his own damned stupidity, and then he gets up and heads for the secret passage. He knows when the conspirators will strike – or, at least, he knows who has the astronomical tables which will tell him when they will strike.

Good little Ori, with his books and plans, will be able to give Nori the exact date for Durin’s Day this year.


	13. In Which Frerin Is Surprisingly Sane

Gimli brings Bilbo his breakfast in the morning, and a politely worded message from Frerin asking for a private meeting. Bilbo sends back word that he would be glad to see Frerin in the formal sitting room of his guest suite – Bilbo is by no means ready to deal with the throne room again so soon.

Frerin arrives some time after Bilbo finishes breakfast, and Bilbo dismisses his guards – with some trouble, since they do not want to go. Finally it is only him and Frerin in the room, and Bilbo gives the king a wry smile and gestures to a chair. “Please, your Majesty, be seated. I apologize for the overzealous nature of my guards.”

Frerin smiles back and sinks into the proffered chair. Bilbo takes his own seat. “Do not apologize,” Frerin replies cheerfully. “All guards should be so zealous – it is only proper. And after such a dramatic attempt on your life, I cannot imagine they are happy to leave you alone with any Ereborean!”

Bilbo nods, slightly baffled that the cold king who watched a courtier try for Bilbo’s life and said no word can be so affable and concerned now. Kes is definitely on to something – Frerin outside his throne room is vastly preferable to Frerin on his throne. “I hope you’ll pardon my saying so,” Bilbo says finally, “but the reception I have had from Erebor has not been of the warmest. I know that Belegost’s refusal to send Prince Kili here is disappointing, but I _had_ hoped that the offer of a half-share in Moria would be sufficiently pleasant as to redeem the pain of our refusal.”

Frerin nods slowly. “I am…intrigued by the offer of Moria, even a half-share thereof,” he agrees. “Though…I think you said that the Balrog had been killed? How was it done?”

Bilbo considers his words carefully. “I and some companions had reason to go through the mines, and encountered the creature. One of our number, Gandalf the Grey, whom you call Tharkun, stayed behind while the rest of us fled; and so I did not see the creature’s death. But Gandalf told me that he and it toppled from a bridge, and fell a long way into blackness and the heart of the mountain, until at the last Gandalf struck it a mortal blow; but the effort very nearly slew the wizard as well.”

Frerin’s eyes are wide. “Such a battle would have been death to any mortal being,” he says, awed.

Bilbo grimaces. “It sounded thoroughly unpleasant, yes.”

Frerin laughs. “Hobbits do not enjoy the tales of past battles, then, I take it?”

“No, indeed. We prefer tales of food and mirth, or of long-ago times when ents and stranger creatures walked the world. Battles and hobbits do not mix – well. Except for my great-great-great-grandfather Bullroarer Took. We’re all rather proud of him.”

“Oh?”

“He defeated the goblins and invented the game of golf at the same time!” Bilbo beams. “And was nearly big enough to ride a real horse. Though I suspect he’s gotten bigger through the tale-telling.”

Frerin laughs. It’s a nice laugh, neither cold nor cruel, and Bilbo is baffled yet again at the idea that this warm, friendly dwarf is the same king who sits on his high throne and scowls at everyone. Something is _clearly_ going on.

*

Kes meets Frerin as he leaves Bilbo’s rooms; she is sitting quietly in a corner of the hallway, sharpening her axe, and glances up as he goes by. Frerin grins at her and hunkers down beside her. “’Tis a good axe,” he offers. “Lovely craftsmanship.”

“Aye,” Kes agrees. “Orgun son of Issur made it – he does all of the guards’ weapons, more or less, and his brother Urgun does most of our armor. They are very talented.”

“Do you smith?”

“Nay. I am apprenticed to a baker on my days off, and I have learnt to make marvelous pies; and you would not believe the force it takes to coax pastry dough to the correct texture!”

Frerin laughs aloud. “I have never tried to bake, and when I used to go out hunting, they would never let me cook dinner, for I always burnt it,” he confides. “I used to think that making food was a type of magic.”

Kes giggles. “It might be,” she agrees, “but it is more like smithing than not, I think; you put in the right ingredients and work them hard and stand back from the heat, and what comes out is more than the sum of what you put in.”

Frerin nods slowly. “I have not found much time for smithing, lately,” he confesses, “but I was a fair jeweler when I was younger, before I took the throne.”

“Gimli is a jeweler,” Kes offers, though she does not mention that his finest work has been the settings for Lady Galadriel’s and Prince Legolas’ locks of hair. “Bifur smiths, and also gardens, though you would not think it to look at him. He has a garden on the slopes of the Blue Mountains which supplies the Royal Kitchens with most of their produce, these past few years at least.”

Frerin grins. “He has a fearsome aspect – I remember before he left Erebor with my brother I found him quite intimidating. His cat is an odd addition to his axe!”

Kes nods. “He calls it Mazam,” she says, “and it eats nothing but fine steak and fresh milk, though I would not be surprised if it also had a taste for the blood of his enemies!”

Frerin laughs. “Prince Bilbo has fine talented guards behind him,” he says. “He could surely ask for no better companions.”

Kes nods solemnly. “Gimli, at least, has proven himself true unto the very edge of death, and I know that Bifur is loyal as stone. I can only hope that I am as stout-hearted as they are, when the time of testing comes.”

Frerin looks a little surprised by her assessment, but he smiles. “I am sure you will be,” he assures her. “I think Prince Bilbo is wise enough to choose only the best for his guards – and if I remember Dwalin son of Fundin, and I do, he would not let anyone accompany his liege save the very best he has to offer!”

He nods farewell and rises and strides off, and Kes watches him go in more than mild surprise. Behind her, Bilbo clears his throat; Kes jumps and turns to him.

“I think,” Bilbo says slowly, “that something is _definitely_ odd here.”

“My prince,” Kes replies soberly, “I agree completely.”


	14. In Which Bofur Is Clever And Observant

Bofur has spent a month among the miners and the smiths, the scribes and the servants and the bakers and butchers and traders, the common folk of Erebor. He remembers, when they left, that these people – his people – were wary of the King, yes, old mad Thror, but they knew he mostly turned his eyes and his suspicions to his own son and grandson, and so they worked and played and gossiped with a certain cheerful air. Now, there is an air of wariness, almost of fear, in the lower halls of the Lonely Mountain.

With the fear, and equally as worrisome, is hunger. Bofur knows hunger – knows its bite and its endless patience and its weariness. Bofur’s family has never been well-off, not until Belegost. Not until a disgraced prince and his outlandish husband gave them a new home, a new chance, royal patronage and royal friendship and a land full of cheerful people who are only too happy to feed them every chance they get. But now, in Erebor, it is not only the less-favored miners and the cooks with too many children who look lean. There are merchants whose belts have new holes punched in them, traders in holey boots and miners with half-broken picks. Bofur knows the look of hunger, knows what poverty smells like, and oh, he smells it everywhere in the lower halls of Erebor, sees it on too many faces.

It’s the taxes, the older miners explain to him in the quiet corners of the pubs he frequents, voices low and eyes darting about the room to ensure their privacy. They’ve been raised too many times, and much too high. Some of the mines are playing out, but the crown has claimed so much of the deep delvings that those whose mines are failing often have nowhere to go – which does not stop the tax men, of course.

“It’s the gold-madness,” one very old dwarf mutters to him late one night, so low Bofur can barely hear him. “King Frerin’s got it, like his grandfather before him, but stronger. It’s taken him younger, y’see. I remember King Thror, before the madness really had him, and he was fairer then, and kinder. It didn’t take him all the way till he was old, but the new king’s young yet. Mahal preserve us.”

Bofur buys the old miner another drink and leaves him be after that, but here and there he hears the same thing: Frerin’s worse than his grandfather already, greedy and grasping and cruel with it, never thinking of the good of Erebor but only of the good of the treasury, never spending a copper bit more than he needs to, and often less.

He hears muttering, too, about moving to Belegost. Most of it’s not serious – it takes a lot to get a dwarf to leave his home, after all – but even the fact that they’re suggesting it, in jest or no, is astonishing. The first wave of immigrants, after all, were either those personally loyal to Thorin, or those like Bofur and his family who had nothing in Erebor and no prospects of better. But these are settled folk, merchants and smiths and miners, hungry but by no means scraping the bottom of the barrel, and they murmur among themselves that Belegost is said to be run by a just and merciful King and his sensible, kind-hearted Consort, that taxes are low and food abundant. All of which is true, of course, but still…

There are two other rumors which really worry Bofur. Neither is mentioned often, nor loudly; those who speak of them are wary even of their friends, and Bofur must be clever and quiet and use everything Nori has ever taught him to get close enough to hear them. The first is about Bilbo: Bilbo Ring-bearer, as the song calls him, but the dwarves of Erebor call him Bilbo Mind-healer, and whisper to one another about his miraculous cure of Thorin’s madness. The story has been twisted, Bofur knows, as stories are wont to do, and somehow the link between the destruction of the Ring and Thorin’s return to sanity has been lost. But the truth hardly matters: if the common folk of Erebor think that Bilbo can cure the mad, and Frerin remains gold-mad when Bilbo leaves, well…well. The consequences might be unpleasant.

Still, that’s a long-term worry, and Bofur is vastly more concerned about the other whispers. It is an odd fact, when he thinks about it, that those of the line of Durin don’t seem to care about their mythic ancestry much; certainly Thorin and Fili and Kili and Dis don’t speak of it, and of course young Thrain is too little to talk much. But the common folk of Erebor have always been rather proud that their kings are of Durin’s line, the blood of the first dwarf, and there are mutterings, here and there in dark corners, that one of Durin’s line has married a hobbit lass, and by her gotten sons.

This is, of course, completely true, and young Billin and Thollin are adorable. Which Bofur does not say aloud, not in Erebor at least. (He compliments them lavishly when Primrose or Kili are anywhere nearby, because he is not stupid, and Primrose can be absolutely terrifying when she wants to be.) But from the whispers Bofur has heard in Erebor, there are those who think that Billin and Thollin are blights upon the line of Durin – are such taints, in fact, that only by eliminating them can the dwarves be sure that Durin will be reborn to lead them once again. And, worst of all, once or twice Bofur has heard the murmur that the fiercest proponents of this line of thought were in the most recent group of immigrants.

There is nothing he or Bilbo can do about it from Erebor. Bilbo dares not write home, or at least nothing more than vague nothings, assurances that everything is going well, since there is a good chance that any letter he sends will be read by Erebor’s spies before it leaves the mountain. If he’s truly desperate, he can send a letter with Gimli to Legolas and thence through the Greenwood, but that is a last resort. And while Bofur writes coded letters to Nori every week, he has no assurance that they are getting through, and Nori dares not write back.

Bofur meets with Bilbo two days after Dis’ duel with the would-be assassin, and his normally cheerful face is grim as he sneaks into the Prince’s suite.

“I would I had more good news for you,” he says, and Bilbo grimaces.

“Give me the good first, then, and follow with all the bad,” he orders, and Bofur musters a grin.

“Well, all the common folk are on your side – yours and Lady Dis’. They think the duel was magnificent, and spit on the assassin’s name. They _like_ you, your Highness, and that’s the plain truth.”

Bilbo smiles. “Well, it’s something. The courtiers are certainly not as enamored of me, especially after this little debacle. Alright; tell me the bad.”

Bofur lays it all out: the taxes and the hunger and the fear, the hopes for Bilbo’s nonexistent magic and the whispers of a conspiracy directed at Kili’s sons. By the end of it, Bilbo has his head in his hands, though his face is dry and calm when he raises it.

“I thank you for the information, though I like it not,” he says finally. “There is some foul magic at work in this place, or so I firmly believe, and the target of it is the king; but what affects the king affects the people. I almost wish I _did_ have some great magic in my hands, that I might cure Frerin all at once of his affliction; but I am only a hobbit.” He sighs.

Bofur shrugs. “We do what we can, and that’s all we can,” he says philosophically. “Perhaps the re-settling of Moria will help, if you can convince King Frerin to agree to it; it’d take people out of the mountain, and Moria’s rich enough for ten kings, though they all be as gold-mad as dragons, after all.”

Bilbo laughs. “Well, there’s a pleasant thought,” he agrees. “I shall press hard on the matter; the sticking point is making Fili Lord of it, you know, but I shall not budge on that, and certainly Frerin shall not be King of Erebor _and_ Moria, not though he stalls me till the mountain crumbles.”

Bofur grins. “The dwarves of Erebor have never seen the stubbornness of hobbits,” he says cheerfully. “I would bet on you against any dwarf in the world, in _that_ contest.” He leaves to the welcome sound of Bilbo’s laughter.


	15. In Which Bilbo Does Something Drastic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cliffhanger

The night after Bofur brings his report, Bilbo calls a meeting of his little embassy. Dis has calmed down substantially since the assassination attempt – apparently she spent that whole night in the catacombs below the throne room, pacing back and forth and taking deep breaths, and has carefully avoided Ereboreans for the last few days so as not to rekindle her anger. Bilbo lays out everything Bofur has told him, and also describes his and Kes’ odd, friendly conversations with Frerin.

“Something is wrong,” he concludes, “and the only place where Frerin is gold-mad – and the only place I can feel the presence of some great evil – is in the throne room.”

Dis nods solemnly. “I have been thinking,” she says, “of my childhood, and of my father’s tales. I seem to recall that when I was very young, before the Battle of Azanulbizar, my grandfather was a much kinder person. It was shortly before the Battle that the Arkenstone was discovered; indeed, my grandfather took its discovery as a sign that re-conquering Moria would go well. He had it placed in the back of his throne and called it an omen of his mighty rule.”

Bilbo nods. “And then after the Battle he began to be gold-mad?”

“As far as I can recall, yes. And that fits with what Bofur says about Frerin being younger than Thror was when he began to go mad – Thror must have been two hundred and fifty, somewhere around there, when he found the Arkenstone, and Frerin is only just two hundred. And Thror did not begin to show signs of madness until well after the Battle.”

“Huh.” Bilbo shakes his head. “Look, there’s nothing for it. I have to get close enough to the Arkenstone to know if it’s what giving me such awful feelings. That means I have to go at night, and I think I have to go alone. Dwarves can’t sneak nearly as well as hobbits can, you know that. I can sneak in and out with no one the wiser.”

Of course they all protest, some strenuously. But hobbits are, after all, notoriously stubborn, and Bilbo Baggins is stubborner than most. Finally he stands.

“I am going,” he says. “You will not follow me. If I am not back by dawn, you may come to the throne room and see what’s gone wrong, but _I am going_.”

Bilbo is a very easy-going liege-lord, usually. No one in the room has ever heard him use such a tone, save once: when he told Dis that he would destroy the Ring or die in the attempt. Dis rises and bows to him, deeply and solemnly. “My Prince,” she says, “we will obey.”

*

To say that Bilbo is unhappy about having decided to sneak into Erebor’s throne room in the dead of night would be an understatement. What Bilbo is, is _furious_. Furious at Thror, for being so stupid as to put the Arkenstone in his throne (if it is, in fact, an artifact of great evil). Furious at Frerin for being caught in its net. Furious at Erebor and its dwarves for being so very set on having kings of the line of Durin. And, of course, furious at himself for being so very, very stupidly brave.

The throne room is utterly deserted; there aren’t even any guards. Bilbo figures that there’s nothing in the throne room worth stealing except the Arkenstone, and that’s a bit obvious, really. Stealing that would be practically suicidal.

There’s one torch left burning, and its flame throws flickering shadows across the floor and makes the Arkenstone’s heart seem to burn like an ember. Bilbo walks right up the middle of the room, not bothering to hide – there is no one around, after all. The closer he gets to the dais at the end of the room, the thicker the feeling of malice grows, until at last, standing beside the great stone throne, where Frerin’s banner hangs when he is in the hall, Bilbo almost feels that he cannot breathe for the pressure of hatred on his lungs. The Arkenstone seems almost to glitter cruelly, too much like Frerin’s eyes for Bilbo’s comfort. This close, even in the dim light, it is obvious that the Arkenstone’s setting is removable, probably so that the gem can be cleaned and polished.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, and reaches out, and picks up the stone.

The blast of sheer, unadulterated _malice_ sends him to his knees, gasping for breath, hands locked on the Arkenstone. It is like the Ring, only worse, because the Ring had been in the dark with only that poor foul creature for company, and this stone has been the object of veneration, of adoration, of frank _worship_ from hundreds of dwarves, for hundreds of years. It knows its power. It _laughs_.

_Why hello_ , it says, and its words are soundless poison. _What might you be? I have never seen your like before._

“I am the Ring-bearer,” says Bilbo, and does not know if he speaks aloud. He will not give this thing his name, nor yet the name of his beloved nor his home. He knows better.

_And what manner of creature is a Ring-bearer?_ asks the stone.

“Nothing you’ve heard of, I’m sure,” says Bilbo, amazed that he can still think beneath this weight of cruel power.

The stone laughs again. _Well, if the Ring-bearer has gone to so much trouble to find me, clearly I must have something the Ring-bearer wants. What might that be? Power? I can give you power, Ring-bearer. Riches? Oh, riches beyond imagining! Or perhaps you have come to me for vengeance? I can feel your anger, you know, delicious anger. Who do you want to strike down, to make grovel at your feet? I can give you that._

“I do not want anything you can give me,” Bilbo tells it, and the stone howls in fury, lashes out at him with all its force, and Bilbo bends under the weight of its malice, hunkered down as if the throne can shelter him from the anger of the stone, clutching the Arkenstone because he knows that if he lets it go, he will never be able to pick it up again.

He does not know how long he kneels there, with the stone’s anger lashing at his mind and the stone itself a cold, sharp weight in his hands; but it must be a long, long time.

He comes to himself again when the doors to the throne room open, and Frerin and Dis come in side by side, with the whole court of Erebor and Bilbo’s guards behind them. Comes to himself – and knows what he must do.


	16. In Which Bilbo Is Stubborn

Frerin gives a strangled, furious cry when he sees Bilbo kneeling beside the throne with the Arkenstone in his hands, and draws his dagger, lunging forward. Dis tackles him from behind, pinning him to the ground and wrenching the dagger from his hand. Bilbo’s guards block the courtiers’ way forward, and the courtiers waver for a long moment, torn between rescuing their king and retrieving the Arkenstone.

Bilbo takes advantage of the moment of frozen horror. He raises the Arkenstone above his head, and flings it, as hard as he can, down off of the dais and onto the stone floor. The Arkenstone shatters with a terrible ringing sound, sending bladelike shards across the floor, and something small and dark rolls out from the center of the explosion.

Every dwarf in the room sucks in their breath in horror at the destruction of the gem, and for a long moment Bilbo thinks that he and his guards are about to be overwhelmed by furious Ereboreans, and then something rises from the little dark heart of the Arkenstone: a shadow, a wisp of smoke, which grows longer and more defined and more terrible as the seconds pass, until a vast insubstantial dragon floats in the air of the throne room. Bilbo’s eyes are fixed on the dragon, but he hears the dwarves in the doorway draw back in horror, hears Gimli’s faint oath and Dis’ louder one and Frerin’s shocked cry.

_Well, well, well,_ the dragon says, and one of the dwarves cries out. Bilbo stumbles to his feet. _That was interesting. You’re a fascinating one, Ring-bearer._

“Am I?” says Bilbo distractedly, and takes a step towards the edge of the dais.

_Oh, yes,_ the dragon assures him. _Most people would never dream of smashing a dragon’s stone. None of the dwarves ever have, certainly._

Bilbo takes another careful step. “Dwarves usually don’t smash gemstones,” he agrees.

_No, indeed._ The dragon swoops down, winding around Bilbo like smoke from a campfire. _You are much more interesting than the petty little dwarves. Such a fascinating creature, so angry. You burn so brightly._

“Do I really?” Bilbo asks, and steps down onto the floor. Hobbit feet are tough; he hopes, vaguely, that they will be tough enough to resist the shards of the Arkenstone.

_You do, Ring-bearer. Oh, the things we could do together! I could make you a king, you know. A mighty king, with armies at your command and a throne inlaid with rubies and diamonds._

“I’m not terribly fond of ruling,” Bilbo says, quite truthfully, shifting another slow step towards the shattered Arkenstone.

_Well then,_ the dragon says, winding a little closer around him, _what about riches? I know where every lode of ore, every cache of jewels is below the ground. I could give them all to you._

“Gems don’t really interest me,” Bilbo points out, tapping a shard of stone carefully out of his way with his foot.

_What shall I give you, then, o Ring-bearer? Name it, and it shall be yours._

Bilbo glances up at the great shadowy head, growing more solid by the minute, and takes another slow step. “At what price, I wonder?”

The dragon laughs. It is a horrible sound, like razorblades and falling. _Oh, price! Well, it would not be such a great price, Ring-bearer. A little thing, a small thing. Nothing worth worrying about._

Faintly, Bilbo hears Dis cry, “No!” but he has no attention to spare for her. He takes a final step and smiles up at the dragon.

“Do you know why they call me Ring-bearer?” he asks.

The dragon is taken aback. It uncoils a little from around Bilbo, staring down at him. _No. Why do they call you that?_

“Because,” says Bilbo calmly, “when the Ring of Sauron offered me everything you have and more, I turned it down.” And he raises his foot and brings it down, hard, on the little black heart of the Arkenstone.

The dragon shrieks, a horrid wailing noise which makes Bilbo clap his hands over his ears and wince, but he grinds his foot down into the floor, once, twice, and again, and the dragon spirals up towards the ceiling, losing coherency even as it rises, until finally dragon and shriek and all fade away into nothingness, and there is only Bilbo, one foot bleeding from a shard of the stone and the other covered in a thick black goop, standing in the middle of the throne room staring at the dwarves.

They are staring back at him in shock and something like awe. Gimli is the first to kneel; Kes and Bifur fall to their knees beside him, and behind them, like a wave, the courtiers of Erebor drop to their knees and bow their heads. From near the back of the crowd, someone cries, “Bilbo Dragonsbane!” and the others take up the chant, crying, “Dragonsbane! Dragonsbane!” until the very room seems to shake with it. Bilbo flushes a deep red.

He is grateful, therefore, to Dis, who scrambles off of Frerin and rolls him over, checking his pulse frantically. “He’s fainted!” she cries, and the chant tapers off into confused murmuring. Several courtiers hurry forward to join her at Frerin’s side. The king is very pale, with red spots high on his cheeks, and quite unconscious.

Gimli and Kes move towards Bilbo; Kes rips a strip from her tunic and binds up Bilbo’s injured foot carefully, and then Gimli picks him up and carries him over the shards of Arkenstone to Frerin’s side. As Bilbo and Gimli reach Dis, Frerin blinks, and shudders convulsively, and sits up. His courtiers hurry to prop him up, one of them producing a water-flask and another fanning the king frantically.

Frerin drinks, and hands the flask back, and turns to Bilbo, who shrugs a little sheepishly. “There was…” Frerin begins, and coughs, and has to drink again. “There was a _dragon spirit_ in my Arkenstone?”

“Er,” says Bilbo a bit awkwardly. “Apparently. Sorry about destroying a national treasure, and all, but, well. Dragon.”

Frerin shakes his head. “You must never apologize, Prince Bilbo, for saving my kingdom.”


	17. In Which Bilbo Writes Home

_Dearest Thorin,_

_I write to you with the oddest news I think I have ever put to paper. Perhaps you recall that we joked, before I left Belegost, about my chances of destroying another object of great evil and freeing another king from madness? Well. It turns out, my love, that the Arkenstone of Thror, which has held pride of place on the throne of Erebor for so long, held within its depths the heart of a dragon, and it was that dragon’s spirit which was poisoning the minds first of Thror and then of Frerin after him._

_As to how I know all of this, well, I might perhaps have smashed the Arkenstone and killed the dragon spirit. Mostly by accident, I admit. It was a thoroughly unpleasant few hours and I do not want to dwell on it._

_Frerin was freed from his gold-madness by the death of the dragon spirit, but sadly, the madness had a great and terrible hold on him before that. Erebor is in rather sorry shape, as perhaps you have heard from the immigrants who came to Belegost: the taxes are ruinously high, many of the commoners go hungry, their alliance with Dale is shaky at best, their relationship with the Greenwood is practically nonexistent, and, in short, it’s a bit of a ghastly mess._

_The people of Erebor have, to my eternal dismay, proclaimed me their hero and savior…well, to be completely honest, Frerin called a gathering of pretty much the entire kingdom, explained the situation, and then proclaimed me the Savior of Erebor, Bilbo Dragonsbane before the assembled multitudes. It was awful. But since they all think that I’m the sane and sensible one around here, Frerin would very much like me to stay and help him get all of this mess sorted out._

_If I leave Erebor in the next few months, I can be home before winter really sets in, perhaps even by Durin’s Day if I hurry! I should like to come home, really I should. But if you think it would be better for me to stay here and help Frerin out a bit, I can stay in Erebor through the winter and come home in the spring. If nothing else, I can get the whole Moria situation hammered out – Frerin is quite glad to let Fili be Lord of Moria; frankly at this point I think he would give me the crown off his head if he thought it would make me happy! It’s all very uncomfortable really._

_I’m sending this by raven so that your reply can get to me before it’s altogether too late to come home this year. Please do write soon; I miss you so, husband, and I miss Belegost and the Shire._

_With all my love,_

_Your husband,_

_Bilbo_

*

Dearest Bilbo,

A dragon spirit? You had to defeat a _dragon spirit_? I cannot tell you how utterly horrified I am to think of you in such danger. Once you return home, I shall never let you leave again, because every time you leave you encounter some incredibly dangerous evil artifact! Please tell me you are uninjured and safe.

As much as I would like you to come home again immediately or sooner, however, _azyungel_ ,* I think it would be best if you remained in Erebor over the winter. Helping Frerin put his affairs in order is important, especially if you can get the Moria contracts settled in our favor, but also, unfortunately, it might be safer in Erebor right now for you.

Please don’t panic! We have everything under control, I promise. Nori and Dwalin are working together on the problem. There’s a group of conspirators – not very many! – who are planning to try to kill Kili and Primrose and their children, and they might also target you if you were here. They’re going to strike on Durin’s Day, so I’d prefer you not be here, or even close to here, at that time. The Savior of Erebor might well be safer than Prince Bilbo of Belegost, just for a few more months.

Please, please, stay safe and write to me as often as you can. I will write to you as soon as this stupid assassination attempt is dealt with. Give Dis my love.

With all my heart,

Your husband,

Thorin

PS Please do not find any more evil artifacts to destroy, even if there is another mad king around! It is not a habit I like!

*

Bilbo snickers a little as he finishes reading Thorin’s reply. Dis, sprawled in a chair across the hearth from him, raises an eyebrow. “What amuses you so?”

“Thorin asks that I cease my habit of destroying evil artifacts. I don’t suppose I shall ever convince him that I don’t get into the situations on purpose?”

Dis laughs. “Bilbo, I rather think the gods have decided that you are to be a hero whether you like it or not.”

Bilbo grimaces. “They could have asked me first. I would have refused.”

Kes knocks gently on the doorframe and sticks her head into the sitting room. “Prince Bilbo? May I come in?”

“Certainly! What did you need? I thought you were spending your day off with Frerin.”

Kes blushes to the tips of her ears, much to Bilbo’s amusement. “I was, yes. Um. He’s asked to court me, you see, and I was hoping that, um…” she trails off a little helplessly.

Bilbo grins. “Kes, we’ll be staying the winter here. Go and tell him yes, if you like, and Dis and I will stand chaperone for you, or whatever else is appropriate.”

“Thank you!” Kes beams, and practically skips out of the room. Dis laughs.

“Staying the winter, are we? Between Kes and Frerin and Gimli and Legolas, it’s going to be a long, long winter.”

Bilbo laughs with her. “I had rather be surrounded by courting couples than kill dragons,” he says cheerfully. “I’m sure we’ll survive somehow.”

“We do seem to make a habit of surviving, don’t we,” Dis agrees complacently, and Bilbo grins.

“There’s a habit I think Thorin would approve of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *azyungel: lover


	18. In Which It Is Durin's Day

Nori follows the Head Fanatic and his sycophants patiently through the halls of Belegost. It is late – just after midnight, in fact, just barely the morning of Durin’s Day – and no one else is moving. Their destination is a back hallway which lets into the Royal Apartments; it is guarded, of course, but the Head Fanatic has assured his followers that the guard on duty will incapacitate his colleague and let them through. The sun of Durin’s Day will rise upon a Belegost which has been cleansed of the tainted ones…or so the Head Fanatic thinks.

There is, indeed, a single hooded guard awaiting them just before the last turn. He is bulky and well-armed, but that is normal for Belegost’s guards. He gives the right countersign when the Head Fanatic whispers to him, and gestures for the conspirators to follow him. Nori drops back just a little farther. He’d be worried, he really would, except for the fact that the guard is wearing boots with wooden beads fastening them. There are very few people in Belegost who wear _wooden_ beads.

The conspirators go around the corner in a rush, eager for their bloody work, and Nori, last around, gets to watch the ambush go off _perfectly_. It’s really beautiful. Two guards for every conspirator, and the guards take their opponents down with practiced grace and efficiency. Nori sweeps his hood back to reveal his distinctive hair and leans against the wall, grinning, as the guards truss the conspirators up and pull their hoods away. Across the hall, the first guard also takes down his hood, and Dwalin Kingsguard grins at Nori.

“That went well,” Nori offers.

“Aye,” Dwalin replies. “My thanks.”

Nori shrugs. “One does what one can,” he says lightly. “Taking them to the cells?”

The Head Fanatic – Frar son of Nar, Nori sees now – spits and hisses like a wet cat. “Traitor!” he cries, and Nori cannot help but laugh.

“I think,” he says, “that protecting my king from assassins may perhaps be the exact opposite of treason. But perhaps I am wrong. Surely Dwalin Kingsguard will know?” He winks at Dwalin, who strokes his beard solemnly.

“Indeed,” Dwalin replies, “it seems to me that protecting one’s liege-lord is the farthest thing from treason. But I am a simple guard, and pay little attention to the intricacies of the court. We will have to ask my brother, and my husband.”

Nori laughs again. Dwalin so rarely goes along with any of his jests, but here, with the conspirators caught and adrenaline running high, apparently Dwalin is in a marvelous mood. “I shall be sure to do so,” he promises, and shares a grin with Dwalin.

“Take them to the high cells,” Dwalin orders the guards. “His Majesty will deal with them tomorrow.” His grin gets nastier. “Billin and Thollin are looking forward to the Durin’s Day celebrations, and we wouldn’t want to interrupt that for these idiots.”

The guards nod and grin and gather up the conspirators, and Dwalin follows them away. Nori stays leaning against the wall for a few minutes.

Little Ori has gotten better at sneaking; he’s leaning against the wall next to Nori before Nori knows he’s coming. Nori’d be worried, but he trained his little brother himself, so instead he’s proud.

“You’re right,” Ori says softly after a few minutes. “Protecting the king is loyalty, not treason.”

Nori smiles a little. “Your overprotective husband will throw three kinds of tantrum if he finds out you were here for this.”

Ori snorts. “You’re a fine one to be calling him overprotective.”

“Takes one to know one,” Nori shrugs. “C’mon, time for all law-abiding dwarves to be in bed. Durin’s Day waits for no dwarf.”

“So what will _you_ be doing, then?” Ori teases, and leans in to give Nori a quick hug before vanishing off down the corridor again. Nori laughs into the silence, and heads for home.

*

There is no laughter the next day, when the seven conspirators and the guard they had suborned are hauled into the throne room by twice their number of large and angry guardsdwarves. Apparently they have not been quiet about their plans while they were in the cells, and the guards of Belegost take unkindly to plots against their king.

There are very few people in the throne room: Thorin, of course, seated in his throne and glowering magnificently; Balin, beside him, looking every inch the warrior he is beneath his stuffy robes; Dwalin and Nori and Ori, all looking fierce and furious; and Primrose Took – Primrose _Axe-Maid_ , with her husband’s axe in her strong hands and a look which would strike fear into a dragon’s heart.

The conspirators glare at her, and Frar spits at her as best he can, but their glares are not terribly effective, and Primrose returns them with a snarl of such fury that several of the conspirators draw back in fear. There is a Captain of the Guard in Minas Tirith who could tell them what that expression means on Primrose Axe-Maid’s face; the orcs who saw it from close range will never tell anyone anything again.

The guards dump the conspirators in front of Thorin’s throne, and Thorin glares down at them. “My Spymaster tells me,” he says, voice low and hoarse with anger, “that you seven came last night to the Royal Apartments with the intent to slay myself, my sister-son Kili, his wife, and his sons. He tells me also that _you_ , Ingmar son of Tenn, made common cause with these traitors and planned to incapacitate your fellow guard and allow them into the Royal Apartments, in direct violation of your vows of loyalty. Is this so?”

Frar spits again, eyes wild. “They are a taint upon the sacred line of Durin!” he cries. “If the pure blood of the dwarven kings is muddied with hobbits, we shall never see the Deathless again! They will destroy the dwarven kingdoms and the ancient line of Durin, and in your folly you allow it!”

Primrose scowls, clearly unimpressed by hearing her sons called ‘tainted.’ Thorin, expressionless, turns to the renegade guard.

“And you, Ingmar; what excuse do you give for your treason?”

Ingmar glares back at his king. “They’re right; you’re mad, as mad as you were when the Ring had you. It’s one thing for us common folk to marry hobbits, but the blood of Durin is sacred! Prince Kili has betrayed us all – and so have you by letting him!”

Thorin shakes his head. “Enough,” he says. “I have heard _quite_ enough.”


	19. In Which Primrose Is Furious

“The penalty for treason is death,” Thorin says, “and I am not minded to be merciful today. From your own mouths you have proclaimed your crime.” He raises a hand in preparation for the command, and Primrose steps forward.

“Primrose?”

“A boon, my king,” she says, “for myself and for my husband and for my sons who bear your blood.”

The conspirators hiss and spit at the mention of her sons, though Nori thinks that they have lost some of their fire: getting caught and sentenced for treason was never part of their plans, and the Head Fanatic had even been convinced that Fili would forgive them everything because of their devotion to his pure blood. (Fili, informed of this, had sworn on his son’s life that he would rather die than forgive those who murdered his family. Nori had somehow neglected to mention this to the conspirators.)

Thorin gives her an odd look: this has not been discussed. But hobbit or no, there is no chance that Primrose will ask him to spare the conspirators’ lives – Thorin is wise enough to know that hobbit gentleness conceals a core of steel, and that they love their families as deeply as dwarves do. He lowers his hand and nods to her. “Speak your boon, Primrose Took, and as it is in my power I shall grant it.”

Primrose smiles. It is not a nice smile. Even Nori is briefly taken aback by its malice. “I have learnt, my king, from my time among your people, that the honor of a dwarf is his beard. Is this not so?” Thorin nods solemnly, and Nori has to cover his face to hide his grin: to be sure, he intended to reave their honor from them, but for _Primrose_ to come up with this…

“I want their beards,” she says plainly. “For their insult to my blood, for their attempt to kill my sons, for their attack upon my king, _I want their beards_. They will die beardless and honorless and know that a _hobbit_ has taken all that mattered to them.”

Every dwarf in the room winces. Nori makes a mental note: _really_ don’t piss off hobbits. They’re not all as kind and forgiving as Prince Bilbo! Come to think of it, his own Thorn is a full-blood cousin to Primrose. Good to bear in mind.

Thorin looks shocked for a moment – noble dwarf that he is, he does not often think of such subtle cruelties. But then he begins to smile, and Nori notes with interest the similarities between the king and the hobbit lass. The conspirators can read that smile as well as Nori can, and begin to babble, pleading for their beards and honor. Death is one thing – everyone must go to the Halls of the Ancestors someday – but to lose your beard, well, that is another thing entirely. And to lose it to a hobbit lass, the very hobbit you have accused of tainting the sacred line of Durin – well, Primrose apparently has a mean streak. Nori approves entirely.

Thorin raises his hand again, regally. “I will now pass sentence on these traitors,” he proclaims. “I command that they shall each be beheaded, in this day and hour, and their remains shall be buried far from Belegost and the Shire, with no headstone or marking to distinguish them. Moreover, I command that before their deaths, the hobbit Primrose Took, wife to Prince Kili son of Dis, shall be allowed to approach them and, if she so desires, to remove their beards, that they shall die honorless and nameless. So I command; so let it be done.”

Nori must admit that when King Thorin wants to, he can be very, very kingly. Nori is pretty much constitutionally incapable of awe, but if he _could_ be awed, Thorin in full regal mode would do it. Balin has a look of immense pride on his face, pride in the king he helped to train, and Dwalin looks viciously happy – loyal Dwalin, who would die for his king, will certainly kill for him – and Primrose…oh, my. Nori is duly impressed by the weight of satisfaction in her smile.

The guards have to pretty much sit on the conspirators to hold them still while Primrose takes their beards, but they do so, and Nori is sure that the legend of Primrose Axe-Maid, already a staple of the guards’ mess hall, has just gained a few more stanzas. Not only a berserker and a faithful wife – Primrose knows how to take _vengeance_. Dwarves can respect that.

The shorn dwarves are dragged from Belegost – it’s always easier to carry a live body than a dead one, at least if you’re worried about blood trails – through back ways so as to avoid the law-abiding citizens, and Nori trails after them, leaving his little brother and Primrose and Balin with the king and a little pile of beards. Hopefully Primrose will let him have them once she’s shown them to her husband, though for all Nori knows, Primrose plans to mount them on her wall as trophies. That does seem out-of-character for her, but Nori wouldn’t have expected her to demand their beards in the first place.

He stays with Dwalin and the guards and watches until they reach a small grove on the side of the mountain where no one ever goes, and each of the conspirators, one by one, is solemnly beheaded. Nori doesn’t even bother mocking them; after Primrose, it’d only be anticlimactic. When there is nothing left of the conspiracy save a little heap of bodies, Nori leaves Dwalin and the guards to their grave-digging and heads back to make his report to his king. It may have been a small and rather stupid conspiracy, but it was a learning experience for Nori’s still-fledgling spy corps (all…oh…three of it) and for the royal family, too. Really, Nori thinks, it’s just as well his first real conspiracy was this pathetic bunch. Not that he couldn’t have dealt with a more competent lot of assassins, but a practice round is never a bad thing.

*

To Nori’s delight, Primrose is more than willing to let him have the beards once she’s shown them to her husband. Nori boxes up the five which came from Ereborean immigrants, and addresses the box to his old master, Terin son of Ollen, the Spymaster of Erebor, with a polite little note advising Terin of the names of the slain conspirators and their crimes, and asking that Terin do his best not to send any _more_ conspirators along to Belegost, lest Belegost begin to believe that Erebor has become its enemy.

Nori doesn’t think the conspirators actually had any official backing from Erebor, as it happens. Terin is smarter than that, and he certainly wouldn’t have sent out such an utterly incompetent bunch of assassins. Besides, Belegost really isn’t close enough to Erebor to make it feasible to rule both kingdoms, and so killing off the royal family of Belegost – even leaving aside problems of fratricide – would do Frerin no good at all. Still, it’s as well to pre-empt any thoughts Terin and Frerin _might_ be having about assassinating Thorin or Fili or Kili, and also Nori wants to begin to gain a reputation for being ruthless towards conspiracies. You never know when that sort of reputation might be useful, after all.

…After this, maybe he’ll just threaten any possible traitors with Primrose. That ought to do the trick _marvelously_.


	20. In Which There Is Courting

Kes never anticipated being courted by a king. It’s still a bit odd, when she thinks of it – when she thinks of Frerin as Frerin son of Thrain son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. Now that the Arkenstone is gone, Frerin _never_ acts cold and cruel the way he did under its influence. He’s charming and witty and very eager to please, at least with her. Part of that is doubtless that Kes’ chaperones are Bilbo Dragonsbane, Savior of Erebor (and doesn’t he go a funny color when people call him that!) and Dis daughter of Thrain, who knows every story about young Frerin’s foolish indiscretions and is more than happy to tell them at a moment’s notice. Kes can’t help but be a little proud of that, actually: to think that she, Kes daughter of Bombur, should have the Prince of Belegost and the Lady Dis as her chaperones! That’s the sort of thing which happens to princesses in hero-tales, not to cooks’ daughters.

Then again, as far as Kes can tell, she’s been caught up as a minor character in a hero-tale, so perhaps it’s less surprising that one of the companions of Bilbo Dragonsbane, Ring-bearer and Savior of Erebor, should be courted by a king. Still, it’s not Frerin’s throne or his riches which appeal to Kes.

Kes likes it when Frerin brings her jewelry he’s made with his own hands – a little clumsy, after so many years away from the forges, but he uses her favorite stones and sets them in mithril and yellow gold and looks so endearingly nervous when he presents them to her. Kes threads them in her hair and beard, wears rings and bracelets from Frerin’s hands, and feels like she might be worthy to be queen.

She likes the way he looks when he bites into one of the pies she makes for him – bumbleberry and strawberry and apple and peach, every fruit she or Gimli can find in Dale’s markets. His eyes close and the lines in his face smooth out and he looks just utterly blissful; and then he opens his eyes and looks at her as though she’s done something magical, not simply baked a pie. (Though she does bake good pies, if she says so herself. Even Rosemary says so, and Rosemary is the chief baker of Belegost!)

She likes walking with him through Erebor. Frerin has a bit of a problem with being in the throne room these days – Kes can’t blame him, the room creeps her out too – and so he prefers to spend his time in the hallways and forges of his kingdom. He shows Kes all of his old favorite places: the Lace Cavern, with its walls made of fine limestone filigree; the Mosaic Hall, with its walls and floor and ceiling all covered with precious gems placed by ancient craftsmen; the mithril forges and the wide walkways over the deep mines.

Kes, in her turn, tells stories of Belegost and of her family: her father, broad and laughing, who brings home samples from the royal kitchens for all of his children; her mother, perpetually cheerful and much sought-after as a midwife (and not only because of her own eight living children); her little brothers, running wild in the halls of Belegost, and her precious little sister, who bids fair to be a great beauty and a fine smith. They are small stories, but Frerin listens wide-eyed, and Kes remembers that _his_ family probably never had these sorts of small pleasures in each other’s company. Mad Thror, disgraced Thrain, proud Thorin and angry Dis – not exactly a happy collection of dwarves. Kes’ family may have been poor while they were in Erebor, and often hungry, but they have always been rich and full with love.

And Frerin swears, on his life and his throne and his sacred line, that if they wed, their children will grow up surrounded with love and laughter even as Kes herself did, and he will not repeat the mistakes of his grandfather or his father. That is an oath Kes can respect.

*

Gimli spends the better part of the winter in Dale. No one in Erebor is going to dare to attack Bilbo – not Bilbo Dragonsbane, whom all the court saw vanquish the spirit of the Arkenstone which had bewitched the king. Bilbo is cheered and lauded wherever he goes, much to his own dismay, and even untrusting Dis agrees that Bilbo is no longer in danger in Erebor. If anyone hurt him, their own kinsfolk would likely tear them apart.

So Gimli spends days at a time in Dale, walking its streets beside Legolas or sitting in the small room Bard has given over to the elven prince and just talking, for hours on end. Sometimes they do not even talk, simply sit side by side on the little couch and watch the snow fall over Dale and the Greenwood beyond it.

Gimli finds the same contentment at his beloved’s side that he does in the forge, putting the last touches upon some beautiful artifact, or in battle, with his axe in his hand; _here_ , something in him seems to say, _here is exactly where you ought to be_. He rather thinks the elven prince feels the same way; certainly he relaxes whenever Gimli arrives from Erebor, the cool expression of courtesy falling from his face to be replaced with a broad and genuine smile. And though Legolas holds himself aloof from everyone around him, as befits the prince of the Greenwood, he likes to touch Gimli – rest a hand on Gimli’s shoulder as they walk, lean against him as they pore over their dictionaries and trade phrases in Sindarin and Khuzdul, curl around him as they sit beside the window and watch the snow. And he wears the jewels Gimli makes him, and shines like the morning star.

*

Legolas has never been quite so contented. It is so blessedly easy to be around Gimli; he need not watch his words, as he does around his father and the court, nor be alert for pranks, as he his around his friends, nor fret over diplomatic protocol, as with King Bard and Prince Bilbo. It should probably not be easier to be in a dwarf’s company than it is to be around anyone else, but Legolas doesn’t particularly care. Gimli is strong and clever and funny and cheerful and downright wonderful.

Legolas is pretty sure he owes Prince Bilbo something for this winter with his beloved, but he’s not sure what gift could really convey his gratitude. That is something to worry about _later_ , however; for right now, Legolas is happy to spend his time thinking about nothing except the next moment with Gimli. When the winter is over, he knows that he will have to return to the Greenwood, and Gimli to Belegost, and then the long wait will begin again, but until then, he has Gimli to lean on and to laugh with, to share dinner and to tell stories with, to lean on as they watch the snow fall. It is so easy to make Gimli happy, and making Gimli happy makes Legolas feel warm and wonderful inside.

*

Thorin does not _pine_ , whatever Dwalin may say. He is the King of Belegost, not a maiden waiting for her hero to return; though with Bilbo going off and slaying dragons and destroying artifacts of great evil, sometimes Thorin _feels_ a little like the waiting damsel. Still, he doesn’t pine. But he does miss Bilbo quite a lot.

Bilbo will be home in the spring, Thorin tells himself. It is not so long in the grand scheme of things. Still, Thorin’s bed is cold and lonely at night, and during the day he cannot help but glance to his side, where Bilbo ought to be. Soon, he tells himself. Soon. He survived the Ring-madness; he can survive another few months until Bilbo returns.

That doesn’t mean he’s not going to be a very grumpy king until then.


	21. In Which Bilbo And Frerin Have A Chat

“It was like,” Frerin begins, and pauses, looking into his drink. “Do hobbits have drunkards?”

“Not many,” Bilbo replies. “Now and again, one who has suffered a great grief will turn to mead and ale to ease their sorrow; but hobbits have few great griefs.”

“Ah,” says Frerin, and considers. “Among dwarves, now and again, there is one who finds that he cannot bear to live without his ale; that nothing, even smithing or mining or whatever his craft may be, suffices him without ale.”

Bilbo reflects a moment on the sheer _dwarvishness_ of that sentiment, and nods his understanding. Frerin sighs and continues, “He will sell anything, give up anything, do anything for his ale. That is how the stone was to me – as though being near the stone was as good as food and drink and sleep together. The only thing even a little bit soothing, besides the stone, was gold.”

“And so the taxes,” Bilbo prompts. Frerin takes a good long swing of hobbit moonshine and nods.

“And so the taxes. It promised me gold, you see, and always I wanted more. You heard how it could promise. When I was listening, everything made sense, and I didn’t have to worry about anything.” He glances down at his drink again, and shakes his head a little. “You know, I didn’t believe Kes when she told me how strong this was.”

Bilbo laughs. “A lot of people seem surprised by that,” he agrees. “But you need to talk, or the guilt will eat you as surely as the dragon would have. This seemed the simplest way.”

Frerin laughs, and looks startled that he has done so. “ _Sherkhel_ ,* truly,” he murmurs. Bilbo pretends not to hear. Frerin takes a deep breath. “When I was not with the stone,” he says slowly, “it was like all my hours beside it were…sleepwalking. Like there was a veil between me and the memories. I tell you I did not remember raising the taxes, or spatting with the men of Dale, or the tale you told me of the Balrog’s death. Or…I remembered them, as one remembers history told one in one’s youth, as grey faint images of long ago and no importance.”

Bilbo nods. “I think,” he says, “from what I have learned of you these few weeks past, that had you truly remembered your actions upon the throne, you would have been appalled, and repudiated them; and so of course the dragon could not allow that.”

It’s quite true, Bilbo reflects, that in the weeks since Bilbo slew the dragon, Frerin has been trying very hard to make up for what he did while under its control. He has repealed every raise in taxes since he took the throne, and ordered the return of half of all collected taxes. Bofur tells Bilbo that the common folk of Erebor are singing Frerin’s praises – and Bilbo’s – in the taverns and the streets. The sudden influx of money has gone a long way towards convincing people to forgive Frerin’s actions while he was under the dragon’s influence.

So has Kes. She is bluntly, unashamedly common, the daughter of a cook and a midwife, bodyguard to Bilbo Dragonsbane and apprentice baker. People remember her and her family, remember how hard they always tried to make ends meet and how they were always willing to lend a hand. And now they are meeting her again, as she visits mines and smithies and kitchens and shops beside her betrothed, talking freely and charming people left and right. It helps that Frerin spends most of his time smiling besottedly at her, and that the people of Erebor are willing to believe many good things about one of the bodyguards of Bilbo Dragonsbane.

Bilbo pulls his thoughts away from Frerin’s campaign to win back his people’s loyalty and grins at the sight of the King Under the Mountain facedown on the table, quite unconscious. People always underestimate Gaffer Gamgee’s homebrew.

*

Really, the only truly uncomfortable part of that winter, for Bilbo, is when the package arrives from Belegost. It’s addressed to Spymaster Terin son of Ollen, from Nori son of Korin, and the morning after it arrives Bilbo receives a very polite message asking him to meet with Frerin and Terin, privately. He brings Bifur – Bilbo is not quite willing to trust the Spymaster of Erebor.

The package, open, is lying in the middle of the table in the private meeting room. Bilbo glances into it and blinks, astonished. “Are those _beards_?”

Spymaster Terin nods grimly. Bifur reaches into the box and picks up one of the beards – it’s knotted together at the top so it won’t get mixed up with the others – and grunts a little, then drops it contemptuously. Frerin, looking slightly green, says, “Apparently the Lady Primrose demanded the honor of the dwarves who sought to slay her sons.”

“ _Primrose_ did this?” Bilbo stares at Frerin incredulously. Bifur mutters something approving.

Terin nods again. “The note which accompanied the…items…included her demands verbatim. It was…impressively vituperative.”

Bilbo winces. He adores his cousin, but the Took blood is strong in her, and Tooks have never taken kindly to threats to their families. And Bilbo remembers what Kili told him about the Battle of the Gate in Minas Tirith – about Primrose Axe-Maid standing over her beloved and screaming the battle cry of the dwarves into the face of the orcish army. He can imagine how well she would take a threat to her sons.

“Hobbits, too, value their families,” he says at last, and turns away from the package. “We are not dwarves, perhaps; we do not set such store by gems and beards as your folk do. But there are many who are not alive today who thought a hobbit would be easily slain.”

Terin nods a third time. “I shall remember that,” he says slowly, and Bilbo decides that the threat assessment of the Shire has just jumped quite a bit. Hobbits are used to being underestimated; Bilbo doesn’t mind.

Frerin says, slowly, “The chief of the conspirators was the son of the dwarf who tried to kill you – the one Lady Dis slew on the sands.” Bilbo sighs. “Lord Nar’s widow has asked me to express her disagreement with her husband’s and son’s views, and extend her apologies for her family’s actions.”

“Has she other children?” Bilbo inquires after a moment.

“She does. A son, and a young daughter.”

Bilbo considers a moment. “I think you should find the son a good apprenticeship,” he says at last. “And perhaps encourage the whole family to consider emigrating to Moria. Neither Erebor nor Belegost will be particularly welcoming to them, I think.”

Frerin smiles slowly, and beside him Terin gives Bilbo a long and considering look. “Truly,” Frerin says, “hobbits are not like dwarves at all. I will do as you ask, Bilbo Dragonsbane, and when the Lady Hina asks me whence my mercy comes, I will tell her that her thanks should go to the Shire, which raises merciful sons.”

If he lives to be a thousand, Bilbo will _never_ understand dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sherkhel: the brew of all brews, the most potent drink


	22. In Which Bofur Is Observant Again

Bilbo leans back in his tall chair as the last of today’s prospective emigrants leaves the room and sighs. Bifur, behind the chair, laughs a little, and Mazam leans over the chair-back to bat at Bilbo’s braids. Dis smothers a chuckle.

“I know I have to do this,” Bilbo says wearily, “but oh, what a pain it is.”

Dis shrugs. “Could be worse,” she says philosophically. “We could be watching Kes and Frerin moon at each other.”

Bilbo stifles a snicker. “They’re adorable,” he says mildly.

“Yes, well, they can be adorable somewhere else,” Dis replies grumpily. “Spring cannot come too soon; I am tired of playing chaperone to the lovebirds.”

In truth, Bilbo is tired of it too; he has never had to chaperone anyone before, and it’s rather boring really, following Kes and Frerin around to make sure they don’t get up to anything. As if they would; both of them are too cognizant of the importance of doing everything properly to mess things up. Still, days like today, when Frerin is holding open court and Kes is watching to learn what her duties will be as Queen, are a great relief to Bilbo and Dis. With the entire court watching, Kes does not need chaperones.

There’s a knock on the door, and Bofur sticks his head in, grinning at his cousin in greeting and nodding deeply to Bilbo and Dis. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course, and welcome.” Bilbo waves him to a seat. “What news from the city?”

Bofur slumps down in his chair, grinning and weary. “The tax remits have been incredibly helpful. A lot of people have started opening new mines, now that they’ve got the funds, and I’ve been helping out where I can. Sometimes you just need another pair of hands for a few days, you know, just to get things started, and it’s amazing what people will talk about over a mug of ale after getting the new shaft braced!”

Bilbo and Dis laugh. “Well then,” Dis teases, “shall we find you a mug of ale so that you’ll actually give us some news of substance?”

Bofur laughs at her. Bilbo knows that Dis likes that about Bofur, that he appears to fear nothing and laugh at everything. Very few people actually dare to _laugh_ with – or at – the Lady Dis, the Spider-Slayer, the granite-hearted. Bilbo likes it too, that Bofur will make fun of the legends that Bilbo seems to accumulate by accident, that he will ask for drinking songs and epic poetry about the glory days of the dwarves so that Ori won’t sing the _Saga of Bilbo Ring-bearer_ again. Bofur is smarter than he looks and kinder than he sometimes acts, and Bilbo is glad to have him along.

“I never turn down a mug of ale from a pretty lady,” he teases back, knowing full well that Dis will scowl at him, “but honestly, there’s very little news. A lot of people starting to get their feet back under them, and a lot of people looking forward to the wedding – I assume the wedding’s still on?”

Bilbo nods. “They’re quite infatuated with each other,” he replies. “Early spring – they haven’t quite set the exact date yet.”

Bofur nods back in understanding. “And I’m sure I’ll hear the minute they do,” he agrees. “One of the miners who’s been friendliest has a daughter who’s a seamstress for the nobility – she’ll be swamped as soon as word comes down.” Bilbo hears _given me the most information_ for _friendliest_ and grins a little.

“People are happy,” Bofur says. “Happy people don’t rebel. They sing your praises, and they talk about Kes, and they call Frerin the Golden King sometimes. They’re working, and dwarves like to work. Their children have enough food and they can buy new tools and clothes and toys when they need them. There’s the promise of Moria, of riches from outside Erebor and of a new chance for those who have been too badly scared to stay here. They’re…hopeful. For the first time in a long time.”

Bilbo nods solemnly. “Gimli tells me that the Men of Dale, also, are much happier with Erebor; having an unfriendly King Under the Mountain was not reassuring to them, but Frerin’s apologies have mostly placated Bard – well, that and all the food he’s ordering come spring for the wedding feast!”

*

My dearest Bilbo,

I am glad to hear that matters improve apace in Erebor. Fili and I have been discussing his departure for Moria, and the Thains of the Shire have agreed to send a large quantity of preserved foods along with the departing convoy. Since they have never quite realized that dwarves do not eat as much as hobbits, I rather think that they will send enough food to keep thrice the number of Fili’s followers fed through the winter; therefore I ask that you let Frerin know that he may send up to fifty dwarves in this first wave, and then next year we shall consider again.

Fili has been warned to look out for Lord Nar’s widow and her children, though we both hope, of course, that she did indeed have nothing to do with the actions of her husband and eldest son. If that is so, well, all will be well; if not, Fili and Mim will be on their guards.

Primrose is pregnant again. I swear I shall never grow used to the fertility of hobbits! It is a constant marvel to me to see our hundreds of little dwobbits running through the halls, and to know that they are the future of my kingdom and, perhaps, of my race. Your gift to my people was twofold, you know: first, the spell which gave my people their hobbit wives, and second, the Shire, the promise that the children of my kingdom will never know hunger or want, for the wide green land of their ancestors will sustain them. Not even the Men of Dale are such staunch allies to my people as the hobbits of the Shire have proven themselves to be.

Nain’s leg is paining him sorely these days, and he wishes to leave the commanding of the garrison to some younger, more energetic fellow. Kili is, of course, eager to take up the post; I have asked that he wait until after Primrose has her next child, that we might celebrate with them. Though it is not as though we are terribly far from the garrison, still I feel that Dis might like to see another grandchild born.

I myself await you impatiently, my husband, and hope each day to see the snow begin to melt. Come to me with the spring behind you, and I shall weave flowers in your hair and never send you away again, beloved.

Yours,

Thorin


	23. In Which It Is Spring

Bilbo is almost used to the excesses of dwarven finery; after all, Thorin tries to drape him in gold and jewels regularly, and it is only Bilbo’s own stubbornness which keeps him from being weighted down with so much precious metal that he would need a sedan-chair to get from place to place. All of the hobbits of Belegost have learnt ways to fend off their well-meaning dwarven husbands: beads for the hair, and earrings and necklaces and bracelets in moderation, are all very well, but no self-respecting hobbit will ever wear as much jewelry as a dwarven suitor would prefer.

_Kes_ , however, is a dwarven maiden, and _she_ knows what propriety expects of her, and what Frerin wants of her. She is, in fact, by no means opposed to being covered in gold and gems from her fine full beard to her dainty little toes. And Frerin, of course, being a very noble dwarf indeed, is only too happy to drape his intended in such fine jewelry that she glitters when she walks.

So it is that Bilbo, in a place of high honor at the front of the great hall, is half-blinded by the shine of Kes’ jewelry as she approaches her betrothed in torchlight. The dwarves around him murmur in approval: even her armor and her axe are bejeweled and engraved and inset with precious gems. Bilbo takes a single moment to be appropriately glad that he has never let Thorin dress him so – him a respectable hobbit! – and then just concentrates on keeping a good-humored but faintly baffled expression on his face for the duration of the wedding ceremony, which is, of course, in Khuzdul.

The ceremony is more complicated than Kili and Primrose’s – the spare heir to a small kingdom and his hobbit bride do not need the sort of pomp which the King of Erebor requires – but it is very similar. Bilbo permits himself to smile as the happy couple reach for the unbraided lengths of each other’s hair; that, at least, is an easily recognizable signal which even a hobbit who does not know Khuzdul could be expected to know.

[I bind myself, my kingdom, and my line to you,] Frerin says, and Bilbo realizes that the vows for a king are a little different. He wouldn’t know; his marriage to Thorin was mostly a matter of signing the right contracts. [Let us be of one heart, and one breath, and one life, now until the stone takes us.]

Kes smiles up into his eyes, hands busy braiding golden hair. [I bind myself to you,] she replies. [Let us be of one heart, and one breath, and one life, now until the stone takes us.]

The cheer which comes from the watching crowds, as the couple both finish braiding and attach their marriage beads, shakes even the stone hall. Bilbo beams.

*

Dear Mum and Dad,

Well, I’m married! I’m sorry you couldn’t make it, but I know getting all the little ones over the mountains in winter wouldn’t have been easy, and Frerin didn’t dare put off the wedding much past early spring. People were starting to wonder if our courtship was a ploy on his part to look sane, and he and Prince Bilbo figured that the best thing to do would be to get us married so people would stop looking sideways at Frerin so much.

I’m trying to get used to being called ‘Queen.’ It makes me feel so odd, like they’re talking to someone behind me! Frerin says it took him a while to get used to being ‘your-majesty’-ed, and he’d been a prince before that, so I guess it’s normal.

We’ve been working hard on getting the Ereborean tax system repaired and patching up our relationship with the Men of Dale and – a little bit – with the elves of the Greenwood. It helps that Prince Legolas is right in Dale so we can meet with him discreetly if we have to. I don’t see whatever Gimli sees in him, but he’s obviously besotted with Gimli – it’s sickeningly adorable – so I hope they do well together.

Frerin said I could ask anyone I wanted to to carry this letter to Belegost for me, and while I _could_ have sent it with Prince Bilbo, who’s leaving soon, I figured you might like to see Master Stonecarver Dolur again! He won’t tell you, but he’s actually got some of his carvings in the _Throne Room_. They’re small and near the door, but still! Big brother and I have both come up in the world.

I miss you, and I love you. Write often, and come visit if you can. Frerin says he wants to meet you. Hug Uncle Bofur for me when he gets home; he’s been wonderful!

All my love,

(Queen) Kes

*

When Bilbo leaves Erebor, in the full blush of spring with the birds singing throughout the Greenwood, he leaves with only two guards, but the pack-ponies are laboring under scrolls of contracts, precious gems, and a long and heartfelt letter to Thorin from his brother, begging forgiveness and praising Bilbo highly. (Bilbo has read it already, and rather wishes Frerin had been slightly less effusive in his praise. At this rate, Ori will write another _Saga_!) He also leaves with heartfelt promises of eternal friendship between Erebor and Belegost and rebuilt Moria, which he believes…mostly. Bilbo is pretty sure that _Frerin_ will be friendly towards Belegost for the rest of his life, and that perhaps his eventual, as-yet-hypothetical son will also, but the friendship of kings can be a fickle thing. Still, a promise is a promise, and Bilbo is in a good mood: he is going home!

Bilbo collects Aragorn and Legolas in Dale, thanking King Bard fulsomely for his kindness in housing them. Aragorn and Bard appear to have become fast friends, and part with many embraces and promises to write to each other frequently. Bilbo is pleased: friends among Men can only benefit a future king of Men.

Legolas escorts the little party, smaller now without Kes, through the Greenwood, thought they do not stay in Thranduil’s palace, but continue straight through without pause. Legolas accompanies them all the way to the foot of the Misty Mountains, in fact, and Bilbo lets Legolas and Gimli ride behind the rest of the party, close enough for shouting but too far to hear conversation.

*

Legolas does not want to watch his beloved ride away over the mountains. It might be years before they see each other again, and though they can write and send gifts, now that Legolas knows how pleasant it is to sit beside Gimli in the twilight, warm and happy down to his very bones, he does not know how he will go on without that pleasure.

But Legolas understands duty, and he is his father’s son. Thranduil is cold and unfriendly these days, for reasons Legolas does not understand, which means that it falls to Legolas to look after their alliance with Dale, and their tentative friendship with Erebor, and to keep the forest patrols going and the younger members of the court happy and engaged. And Gimli is a bodyguard to his Prince, and proud to be so. For now, there is no place where they can go together, not that Legolas can think of, and so for a while he will have to be content with letters and infrequent visits.

Elves are fond of tales of long courtship and doomed love; it comes of being immortal and occasionally bored. Legolas does not want to become a tale. Gimli, of course, reassures him: Prince Bilbo is enough of a tale in himself! Surely that will suffice the tale-tellers.

And Legolas laughs, because Gimli can always make him laugh, and kisses his beloved, and watches Gimli ride away over the mountains, and swears an oath, privately, that he _will_ find a way.


	24. In Which Bilbo Returns Home

To Bilbo’s immense relief, the journey across the Misty Mountains is easy. There is no late snow to block their path, no stone giants rise from the rocks, no orcs emerge from the caverns. It is a beautiful journey, in fact, with the spring spreading out below them in every shade of green imaginable, and on a particularly clear day near the peak, Bilbo is almost sure he can see the Shire, far-off and green as emeralds.

Gimli grows quieter with each day away from Legolas, and Bilbo, wracking his mind, finally comes up with, if not a solution, then at least a stopgap measure to keep his guard from utter despair. He discusses it with Dis, who approves entirely, and then makes time to pull Gimli aside, privately, as they camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains.

“Dis and I have been thinking,” he tells Gimli, “and now that Erebor and Belegost are going to be more friendly – and, for that matter, now that Moria is going to be rebuilt – we’re going to need regular communication between the three kingdoms.” Gimli nods confusedly: what has this to do with him? “I’m assuming regular caravans, for mail and trade goods,” Bilbo continues, “and of course those caravans will need guards with experience traveling who know the lay of the land. The only person we could think of who has the relevant experience and has been to Erebor _and_ Moria in recent memory…well, was you.”

Gimli’s jaw drops. Bilbo grins. “So, if you accept, during the winter, you’ll be my bodyguard, same as ever – and I’ll want you to help train my new bodyguards, too, since I know Dwalin will insist on replacing Kes – and then during the summer, you can be the head guard on the caravans going from Belegost to Moria to Erebor and back. And if you take a few weeks off in Erebor and go down to Dale…or perhaps a little farther…no one will really mind, I think.”

Gimli’s smile is a thing of utter beauty. Bilbo is proud to have caused it. “Thank you,” Gimli says softly. “I accept the position. I will do honor to Belegost, and to my Prince.”

Bilbo pats him gently on the shoulder. “You always have,” he replies. “I could ask for no better guardian, nor indeed no more faithful friend. Whatever I can do to help you, I will.”

Gimli beams.

*

It appears that the entire population of Belegost, down to the infants, has turned out to greet Bilbo on his return. Dolur, who set out on fast ponies the day after the wedding, stands beside his proud parents, who are very near the Royal Family; Bilbo grins to himself. Bombur has come up in the world.

Thorin, of course, is out in front, expression some odd combination of worry and pride, and as soon as Bilbo slides off his pony Thorin gathers him into his arms.

“You must stop finding evil things to destroy, my husband,” he murmurs against Bilbo’s hair. Bilbo clings back, unutterably glad to be in the safest place he knows.

“I don’t do it on purpose,” he protests weakly after a moment. Dis is talking to the assembled multitudes – Bilbo is distantly worried that she’s telling them about the dragon spirit – and for just this moment, Bilbo can be warm and safe in his husband’s arms and not worry about being Prince Consort.

There is a party that night, of course; how could there not be. And Bilbo is glad enough to eat and drink and dance with his people, to coo at Primrose over her pregnancy and laugh with Dwalin and sit in his proper place beside his husband again. But it is when the party is over, when Bilbo and Thorin are at last alone in their rooms, that Bilbo really relaxes, quickly stripping and falling back onto the bed with a thump.

Thorin joins him, stretching out beside him with a broad smile on his face, and Bilbo curls against his husband with a sigh of contentment. Thorin buries his face in Bilbo’s hair, wrapping his arm around Bilbo’s waist to hold him close. Bilbo cards his fingers through Thorin’s beard and chest hair.

“Never leave me again,” Thorin says finally.

“Never willingly,” Bilbo agrees. “I am more than tired of evil things.”

“I could not bear it if you died,” Thorin tells him softly. “The last time – the Ring – I was too mad to worry for your fate, at least until you destroyed it, but this time I worried every minute you were gone, and then to learn that a _dragon spirit_ had tried to seduce you – not to mention the assassination attempt, which Dis _did_ tell me about, you know – I could not help but fret. I am sure Dwalin will tell you I was quite unbearable.”

“I missed you,” Bilbo replies. “Every minute. Frerin was…was terrifying when he was mad. And the dragon was like nothing I have ever seen before. Though not as bad as a volcano, I suppose.”

Thorin chuckles. “My brave hobbit husband,” he says. “Strong and steady as the good dark earth of your Shire, eternal as the mountains of Belegost. Hero of three kingdoms at the least. What is a proper reward for such valor? Gold and gems? Songs of praise?”

Bilbo laughs against Thorin’s chest. “A kiss,” he says. “A kiss from my own true love.”

“That, at least, I can provide,” Thorin replies, and rolls Bilbo onto his back and kisses him thoroughly. Bilbo grins up at him.

“Here I am,” he says softly. “I came back, as I promised.”

“Yes, you did,” Thorin says hoarsely. “Let me show you exactly how glad I am of that.”

Bilbo smiles and spreads his arms wide, leaving himself open. Thorin’s eyes go dark and hungry. It never ceases to amaze Bilbo, that his frankly gorgeous husband has such feelings for _Bilbo_ , of all people, but Bilbo is not going to complain. Not when Thorin is kissing him deeply and desperately, pinning him gently to the bed and biting at his lips until Bilbo has to pull away to breathe. Thorin just transfers his attentions to Bilbo’s throat, and Bilbo spares a moment to realize that he is going to have some very visible bruises tomorrow, and then decides he bloody well doesn’t care. It’s his first night back home with his beloved husband. Anyone who looks at him sideways can…go look somewhere else.

Bilbo has never been good at creative threats. That’s more Thorin’s department. And at the moment, Thorin is a little busy kissing his way down Bilbo’s chest, and Bilbo is not going to interrupt that to ask about appropriate threats for people side-eyeing the Prince Consort. Not when Thorin’s hands are warm and heavy on Bilbo’s hips, and Bilbo’s hands are buried in Thorin’s hair, and Bilbo has _missed_ his husband.

Has missed his mouth, and his hands, and the look of naked hunger on his face as Thorin leans back on his knees and reaches for the oil on the nightstand. Bilbo spreads his legs wider and grins, knowing Thorin likes to see him like this, spread out and waiting. Thorin grins back, oil dripping from his fingers and hair a mess from Bilbo’s hands, and he is the most wonderful thing Bilbo has ever seen.

He’s pretty far up there on the list of wonderful things Bilbo has ever _felt_ , too, bare minutes later when Bilbo’s legs are wrapped around Thorin’s hips and Thorin is buried within him, hands braced beside Bilbo’s shoulders and face set in concentration. Bilbo laughs, joyful as he has not been in months, and pulls Thorin down by the beard to kiss him. “ _Move_ , husband,” he orders, and Thorin grins wolfishly and obeys.

It is over quickly – Bilbo arching up against his husband and spattering them both with white splashes of seed, Thorin stiffening against him and kissing him ferociously as his own peak hits – but then, it has been a long time since they last shared a bed. And as nice as sex is after a long hiatus, Bilbo almost likes the aftermath better. He always sleeps best wrapped in Thorin’s arms, with his head tucked under Thorin’s chin and their hair tangling together.

Thorin pulls his husband closer and tucks the blankets around them, and smiles into the darkness until he falls asleep.


	25. In Which There Is Good News

Bilbo puts the letter down and grins up at the dwarves around him. “Kes is pregnant,” he announces. Bombur lets out a whoop of joy; Thorin and Dis both beam. The succession of Erebor is assured, assuming the baby lives and is healthy.

“Senna will set out for Erebor at once,” Bombur predicts. “She won’t want to miss her daughter’s first child! I must go and give her the good news.” He turns and hurries away, and Bilbo leans back in his chair and sighs.

“Thank goodness,” he says softly. “I was worried that if it took a while, the people of Erebor might start to get restless. Heirs are important.”

Thorin nods solemnly. “Clearly the fertility of Belegost has affected Kes,” he says, and grins at Bilbo’s flailing attempt to explain that that is _not how fertility works_. Finally he raises a hand. “Speaking of heirs.”

“Fili,” Bilbo agrees, letting himself be distracted from his rant. “Has he set a date?”

“Just this morning,” Thorin tells him. “He will be leaving in two weeks. Almost everything is ready for his departure; really I think he’s simply waiting until Primrose has her baby, and that should be any day now.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agrees. “If he leaves by Halimath* he should be well settled in Moria before winter begins.”

*

“Her name is Daisy,” Primrose declares, and no one dares gainsay her. Not that anyone would; the arrival of a daughter to a dwarven household is too grand an occasion for any disputes to arise. Kili looks immensely proud and slightly worried, as any father should, and Dis is cooing at the infant. Bilbo beams at his cousin.

“She’s beautiful,” he tells her honestly. “She’ll be a credit to her parents.”

“Oh gracious,” Primrose says, laughing. “I’m going to have to teach her how to use an axe!” The room dissolves in laughter, and young Daisy watches it all with wide blue eyes.

*

Dear Uncle Thorin and Bilbo and Mama and everyone,

I’m sure you got the official letter with all the formal language, but Mim and I wanted to write something with some actual meaning!

We have been settling in quite well, all things considered; the immigrants from Erebor arrived only a few days after we did, and we have all been finding rooms and clearing out all the dust and ash. We found and buried all the bodies from Grandfather’s expedition, and one of our stonecarvers is making a dedication plaque for the cave we used as a graveyard. The mines are all ready to be re-started – never let anyone say Grandfather skimped on the bracing! – and we’re trying to make sure to assign everyone who wants to mine a good section. Everyone seems to be getting along well so far; even Lady Hina, Lord Nar’s widow, has not caused any problems, and her son is quite a promising young jeweler.

Moria feels… _right_ somehow. I love Belegost, but something about Moria just suits me. Mim agrees that it already feels like home.

I hope Kili is doing well with the garrison, and little Daisy is healthy. Please give my love to everyone.

-Fili son of Dis, Lord of Moria

*

It is Midwinter, and Bilbo has spent three weeks helping coordinate the great feast for today: the Thains are invited, and Kili and Primrose and their children have come up from the garrison. Bilbo has missed this, honestly. He _likes_ making sure that everything is running smoothly, that there will be enough food and drink for everyone (Gaffer Gamgee, as always, has supplied several barrels of his best moonshine), that the musicians are prepared and the tables are laid as they should be. It’s a very _hobbitish_ occupation, preparing for a feast, and while Bilbo would not give over his husband and kingdom for all the world, it is sometimes nice to do something purely hobbity.

As with any feast run by hobbits, the party goes well. Bilbo welcomes the Thains, who beam at him, and coos over little Daisy, and then over Billin and Thollin so they won’t feel left out. Kili is burbling over with pleasure at his posting: he enjoys working with so many hobbits, many of whom are his wife’s kinsfolk, and the blunt-spoken warriors of the garrison do not expect courtly manners from him, and applaud his ability with axe and bow. Bilbo and Thorin glance at each other as Kili enthuses: clearly Kili has found the right place, the right job. And Fili is happy in Moria. Calling either of them back to rule Belegost would perhaps be cruel.

Still, that is a problem for another day. For now, there are roasts to be taken off the fire and mugs to fill with ale and fresh loaves of bread to break open – carefully, minding the steam – and very little soothes a hobbit as well as a good dinner. Bilbo is proud of his kingdom, of his people both in Belegost and the Shire, that even at Midwinter they can eat and drink and be merry together.

As the feast winds down, Ori stands up and raises his hands for silence. “By popular request,” he says over the murmurs of the crowd, “I will now recite the Saga of Bilbo Dragonsbane.”

Bilbo drops his head into his hands and moans. “He _must_ be kidding,” he whispers to Thorin. Thorin grins and pats Bilbo’s back gently.

“I read it a few days ago. It’s quite good.”

“You’re _not helping_ , Thorin.”

Thorin laughs quietly and tugs Bilbo onto his lap. “You are a hero, husband. Heroes get sagas written about them. Goes with the territory.”

“I prefer kisses,” Bilbo grumbles quietly, and he does not hear any of the new _Saga_ , because Thorin is more than happy to oblige.

*

“Boldly from Belegost / came Bilbo Baggins  
Hobbit hero of legend / soul stronger than steel…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Halimath = September
> 
> As always, many thanks to my Best Beloved Husband, who betas for me and makes the stories immeasurably better. Many thanks also to everyone who has commented or left kudos; knowing people like the story makes it so much easier and more enjoyable to keep writing.
> 
> There will be at least two more long stories in this ‘verse: Aragorn’s Tale and The Founding of the White City. There are also probably some short stories yet to come. I will start posting the next long story on August 12.


End file.
